The 

Gold  Bug  Story 
Book 


MINING  CAMP  TALES  BY 
A  WESTERN  WRITER 
DENNIS  H.  STOVALL 


Author  of 
'Suzanne  of  Kerbyville,"  "Tales  of  Old,  Tales  of  Gold,"  etc. 


Stories  Copyrighted  by 

Reinert  Publishing  Company 

,  Denver,  Colo. 


FOREWORD 


rHE  stories  here  collected,  and  which  have  been  pub 
lished  previously  as  individual  stories  in  The  Daily 
Mining  Record,  are  designed  to  portray  both  the 
"inside"  and  the  "outside"  of  the  noble  fellows  of  the  mines 
and  of  the  danntlc**  men  of  tJie  trail.  Some  reader  may  try 
to  locate  "Gold  Bug."  It  has  a  place  on  the  map.  But 
'whether  it  is  in  California  or  Colorado  or  Nevada  doesn't 
matter.  You  who  hare  packed  a  burro  or  shoveled  gravel 
into  a  sluice,  who  hare  iri elded  a  jack,  or  waited  at  the  collar 
of  the  long  dark  shaft  for  the  shift  to  go  down,  have  been 
there.  You  hare  heard  the  thunder  of  its  mill  and  the  "chug, 
chug,"  of  its  compressor;  you  have  heard  the  yarns  around 
the  bunk  house  store,  and  have  sat  down  to  the  boiled  beef 
<ui tl  beans  of  the  "chuck  house"  board.  If  you  are  a  miner 
you  need  no  introduction  to  Slivers  the  stage  driver,  to 
Hudson  the  super,  or  to  the  Old  Woman  of  the  boarding 
house,  for  you  are  already  intimately  acquainted  with  them. 

The  greatest  battles  ever  fought  are  those  in  which 
America's  army  of  miner*  an<l  mining  men  engage;  yet  they 
are  fighting  them  unknown  lo  the  world.  It  is  an  army  of 
soldiers  of  honest  toil, — an  a  run/  of  marti/rs  that  does  not 
know  defeat, — that  is  fighting  mountains  and  making  straight 
the  way  for  others  to  follow — that  is  unlocking  the  treasure 
ran  I  is  of  Nature  to  increase  the  riches  of  the  world. 

To  you  who  have  mined  and  are  a  soldier  in  this  army, 
and  to  your  friend  and  the  friends  of  your  friend,  "The 
Gold  Bug  Story  Book"  is  dedicated.  If  you  can  get  one  little 
heart  throb  out  of  it,  the  author  will  feel  that  his  work  of 
writing  it  has  not  been  done  in  vain. 

DENNIS  II.  STOVALL. 


921843 


Printed  by 

The  Reinert  Publishing  Company 
Denver,  Colo. 


MILLIE  AND  THE 
THOROUGHBRED 

great  events  have  occurred  in  Gold  Bug:  One 
was  the  discovery  of  the  Irish  Girl  lode;  the  second 
was  the  arrival  of  Millie;  and  the  third — but  that 
should  come  at  the  end  of  the  story. 

The  news  of  Millie's  coming  reached  camp  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon,  when  all  the  night  shift  diggers  were  in  the  Dew- 
drop  imbibing  gooseberry  champagne.  The  mucker,  who  was 
the  happy  and  exclusive  possessor  of  the  news,  was  unable 
to  catch  the  ears  of  the  crowd  because  of  the  liquor-fevered 
bedlam. 

Both  the  weather  and  the  liquor  being  hot,  a  squabble 
was  a  very  natural  proceeding;  and  after  the  fifth  line-up, 
an  impromptu  ring  was  formed  with  Hudson,  the  super,  and 
Jim  Nason,  "the  Thoroughbred,"  in  the  center.  Jim  was  an 
Easterner,  and  because  of  his  genteel  manners  and  general 
good  behavior  was  dubbed  "the  Thoroughbred." 

Jim  never  courted  trouble,  and  the  grievance  this  time, 
as  usual,  was  all  with  Hudson.  The  nature  of  it  was  not 
clear  to  anyone,  and  to  Hudson  least  of  all.  As  a  matter  of 
truth  he  did  not  like  The  Thoroughbred.  Just  why  this  was 
so  none  could  understand,  but  all  knew  that  there  would  some 
day  be  a  settlement. 

On  this  occasion  Hudson  went  just  a  little  farther  than 
customary  with  his  tirade,  and  called  Jim  a  something-or- 
other  liar.  Of  course,  Jim  couldn't  take  that  sort  of  talk 
without  resorting  to  an  immediate  exercise  of  the  index 
finger  of  his  right  hand. 

Two  pistols  were  drawn,  but  as  the  crowd  had  strong 
objections  to  indiscriminate  shooting,  there  was  a  quick  and 
general  scamper  for  the  safe  side  of  whiskey  barrels.  No 
one  was  unsportsmanlike  enough  to  wish  the  fight  stopped, 
nevertheless,  the  persistent  manner  effected  an  immediate 


10       THE  GOLD  BUG  8TORY  BOOK. 

suspension  of  hostilities  by  taking  advantage  of  the  lull  and 
yelling: 

"I  say,  there's  a  woman  comin'  to  camp." 

"A  woman  ?  What !  Comin'  to  Gold  Bug  ?"  chorused 
a  score  of  voices  from  behind  the  barricades. 

"Yes,  a  woman,  a  real  female  woman/'  the  mucker 
assured  with  supreme  confidence.  "She's  a  darter  of  the 
boss.  I  was  jest  now  down  to  the  office,  where  the  bookkeep' 
was  'phonin'  to  Boulder.  From  his  talk  into  the  'phone  fun 
nel,  I  take  'er  to  be  a  gal  from  'Frisco.  She's  comin'  on  this 
afternoon's  stage." 

Every  man  stood  up  and  began  to  tidy  himself.  Hudson 
forgot  his  grievance,  and  returned  his  revolver  to  his  pocket. 
By  the  rules  of  the  game  this  called  off  the  bout,  and  the  two 
candidates  for  the  graveyard  joined  the  crowd  in  slapping 
dust  from  their  clothes  with  hats  and  gloves. 

A  rush  was  made  for  the  camp  store,  for  all  thought  of 
the  blacking  brush  at  the  same  moment.  There  was  only 
one  in  stock.  Ike  Blumberg,  the  storekeeper,  with  a  keen 
eye  to  business,  put  it  up  at  auction.  It  was  knocked  down 
to  Jim  Nason  for  a  dollar-fifty.  The  Thoroughbred  also 
had  the  distinction  and  the  advantage  of  owning  the  only 
biled  shirt  within  40  miles  of  Gold  Bug. 

In  the  bunkhouse  the  activity  of  preparation  bordered 
on  a  panic.  The  wardrobe  of  the  miners  was  stocked  more 
with  a  view  to  utility  rather  than  ornamentation,  and  the 
di  sad  vantage  to  which,  the  diggers  were  put  in  an  attempt 
to  beautify  themselves  was  almost  pitiable.  Every  man  in 
cani}>  needed  a  hair-cut  and  a  shave,  and  nearly  everyone  en 
dured  untold  agony  trying  to  get  them.  There  was  two 
pairs  of  shears  in  the  bunkhoiise,  and  both  had  served  all 
purposes  from  trimming  the  lamp  wicks  to  cutting  sheet 
iron.  The  razors  would  scarcely  whittle  a  stick,  and  most  of 
them  had  been  used  for  that  purpose.  To  remove  a  month's 
growth  of  whiskers  with  such  instruments  of  torture  put  the 
nerves  of  the  bravest  of  them  to  the  test. 

To  most  of  the  diggers  of  Gold  Bug  it  seemed  ages  since 
they  last  saw  a  "real  female  woman,"  as  the  mucker  styled 
this  one.  True,  there  was  Aunt  Mollie,  otherwise  known  as 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  13 

"The  Old  Woman/'  who  kept  the  camp  boarding  house.  But 
she  did  not  count.  As  Jake  Simpson,  the  foreman,  once  de 
clared,  "she  had  a  shape  like  a  side  o'  bacon,  and  put  on  7er 
clothes  with  a  pitchfork." 

And  so  now  that  a  prim,  young  woman  (as  all  knew 
the  daughter  of  the  boss  must  be)  was  coming  to  camp,  the 
men,  with  the  natural  instinct  of  males  of  every  species,  set 
most  industriously  to  trimming  their  plumage. 

Hard  and  fast  as  they  worked,  there  were  still  three  men 
waiting  for  the  blacking  brush  when  the  stage  was  heard  ratt 
ling  up  the  road.  On  Sunday  it  reached  the  camp  an  hour 
early,  as  briefer  stops  were  made  at  the  stations. 

Silvers,  the  red-haired  driver,  puffed  with  importance, 
cracked  his  long  whip  over  the  leaders  and  brought  the  old 
Concord  up  and  around  the  curve  on  two  wheels.  He  did 
not  see  the  group  of  waiting  men  at  the  store;  and  instead 
of  pulling  up  the  stage  to  toss  the  mail  bags  down,  he  swung 
across  the  camp  and  drew  rein  in  front  of  the  boarding  house. 

The  newly-washed  crew  moved  silently  across  the  white 
tailings  pile  ~fo  inhere  the  coach  stood.  At  first  there  was  a 
scramble  for  the  honor  of  helping  the  lady  out,  but  at  the 
crucial  moment,  the  nerves  of  all  failed,  and  all  withdrew 
except  Hudson  and  The  Thoroughbred.  After  a  parry  or 
two,  Nason  backed  out  and  left  the  honors  to  the  big  super, 
who,  hat  in  hand,  and  dressed  in  his  best  suit  of  corduroy, 
was  bobbing  his  head  in  and  out  of  the  stage  door  in  an  at 
tempt  to  bow. 

Then  out  stepped  the  lady,  her  small,  gloved  hand  in 
Hudson's  big  paw.  She  wore  a  long  traveling  coat  and  veil. 
Just  as  her  dainty  feet  touched  the  ground  she  lifted  her 
eyes  to  the  crowd  and  smiled.  Each  digger  of  the  camp  be 
lieved  the  smile  was  for  him. 

"Ts  this  Mr.  Hudson?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  Hudson,"  the  super  replied,  with  another  bob  of 
his  head.  "The  boarding  house  is  right  here.  Aunt  Mollie 
will  get  your  room  ready.  As  super  of  Gold  Bug,  I  heartily 
welcome  you.  The  boys  here  are  a  rough  gang,  but  their 
hearts  are  in  the  right  place." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  she,  prettily.     "F  am 


U  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

sure  I  will  enjoy  my  stay  out  here  very  much.  But  I  am 
tired  and  dusty  after  my  long  ride,  and  will  go  to  my  room. 
I  hope  to  get  better  acquainted  with  all  of  you/' 

She  threw  another  bewitching  smile  at  the  crowd  and 
retreated  toward  the  house. 

Silvers  made  an  extraordinary  attempt  to  bow,  and  in 
discreetly  backed  against  the  near  wheel  horse.  The  animal 
resented  the  undue  familiar,  and  put  out  his  hoof  with  a 
suddenness  that  shot  Silvers  across  the  yard. 

This  broke  the  strained  tension  of  formality  under  which 
the  crowd  had  been  held  and  all  enjoyed  a  heart}7"  laugh  at 
Silvers"  expense. 

When  the  girl  disapepared  into  the  hoarding  house,  the 
crowd  returned  to  the  Dewdrop. 

"She's  four-ace  high,  and  no  mistake,"  declared  Hank 
Fetterly,  who  was  known  down  in  Reno  as  "Faro  Fett." 

"Say,  did  you  see  them  eyes?"  asked  Sid  Barlow.  "A 
gaze  from  'em  gives  a  feller  a  feelin'  like  bavin'  warm  milk 
spilt  down  the  back  of  his  neck." 

"An'  hoofs,"  chirped  in  Shorty  Sanders,  the  camp  roust 
about.  "Why,  her  two  feet  ain't  as  big  as  my  thumb." 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Hudson,  "whatever  you  have  to  say 
about  Millie,  which  is  her  name,  remember  she's  a  lady,  a 
lady  clean  through,  from  hatpin  to  slipper.  Why,  I  used  to 
know  that  girl  when  she  was  a  little  thing — carried  'er  on 
my  shoulder — trotted  'er  on  my  knee.  That  was  before  'er 
pap  made  his  pile,  and  when  him  and  me  were  plugging  ore 
out  in  the  Yellow  Poppy  on  the  Mother  Lode." 

The  big  super  paused,  that  the  startling  information 
might  be  thoroughly  Imbibed.  Then  he  tapped  himself 
boastfully  and  continued :  "I'm  a  little  old  to  be  in  the 
game,  but  from  this  time  on  I'm  Mr.  Ilufus  B.  Hudson,  and 
my  cap's  set  for  the  girl  we  all  call  Millie.  Every  digger 
come  up  and  wish  me  luck.  Mr.  Barkeep,  take  your  hammer 
to  that."  He  dropped  a  twenty  on  the  bar,  and  the  men 
filled  their  glasses  to  the  rim. 

Promptly  on  Monday  the  stage  began  bringing  in 
trinkets  for  Millie.  Hudson  was  become  of  the  idea  that  he 
was  a  lady's  man,  and  he  piled  Millie's  room  with  everything 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       17 

a  girl  ever  wanted,  together  with  a  lot  of  useless  duffle  no 
girl  could  find  use  for. 

Aunt  Mollie  was  pleased.  Hudson,  the  big.  buffalo  of 
a  super,  was  a  great  man  in  her  eyes,  and  she  shoved  Millie 
forward  to  everything  he  brought  her. 

But  Hudson  was  far  from  winning  the  girl's  favor.  She 
took  his  presents  just  because  he  was  "papa's  friend."  As  a 
matter  of  truth  she  cared  but  little  for  him.  He  tried  to 
believe  he  was  winning  her,  and  boasted  of  it  around  the 
mine,  but  it  was  a  dream  that  would  not  last. 

He  took  to  brooding  when  the  girl  refused  to  see  him. 
One  day  she  walked  up  the  trail  to  the  shafthouse  with  The 
Thoroughbred  and  pinned  a  mountain  daisy  to  his  canvas 
coat  when  he  mounted  the  cage  to  go  down. 

Hudson  was  badly  broken  up  by  the  new  turn  of  things. 
He  realized  he  had  a  poor  chance  when  matched  against  Jim 
Nason,  whom  he  styled  the  "dude  miner."  When  Millie  re 
fused  the  last  load  of  trinkets,  the  super  moped  around  the 
camp  with  his  head  down,  like  a  mad  Indian. 

When  Hudson  and  The  Thoroughbred  met  on  the  trail, 
both  kept  a  finger  on  the  trigger,  and  neither  said  a  word. 

Hudson  ceased  his  useless  attentions  to  Millie  and  set 
about  devising  a  means  to  rid  the  camp  of  The  Thorough 
bred.  He  could  easily  dismiss  him.  But  Hudson  never  dis 
missed  a  good  miner.  Though  Jim  Nason  was  tall  and  hand 
some,  and  always  wore  a  necktie,  he  was  just  four  holes 
better,  on  his  shift,  than  any  other  man  of  the  crew.  There 
was  not  another  man  on  the  Irish  Girl  lode  who  could  swing 
a  jack  like  Jim  Nason. 

One  evening  Hudson  had  the  day  shift  lined  up  in  the 
Dewdrop.  The  super  had  been  brooding  all  afternoon,  and 
was  drinking  whiskey  like  water  because  of  some  slight  Millie 
had  shown  him.  The  Thoroughbred  entered  the  saloon  just 
as  Hudson  opened  a  tirade  against  dude  miners  in  general 
and  Jim  Nason  in  particular. 

"Why  in  thunder  didn't  you  ring  the  door  bell?"  Hud 
son  asked  loudly,  when  Nason  came  in.  "You  give  us  a  flir 
tation  of  the  heart,  sneakin'  in  here  like  a  bob-cat." 

The  Thoroughbred  paid  no  heed,  and  was  deaf  to  the 


18  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

laughing  jeer  that  followed.  He  gave  the  crowd  no  look,  but 
sauntered  to  the  back  end  of  the 'place  and  idly  toyed  with 
the  poker  chips  on  a  battered 'table. 

"Must  be  deaf,"  one  man  suggested. 

"Little's  the  difference  anyhow,"  Hudson  continued.  "A 
dude  will  never  answer  you  ;  but  a  man  will." 

The  Thoroughbred  dropped  the  chips,  and  turning  on 
his  heel,  came  back  to  the  group  at  the  bar.  Quietness  at 
once  fell  on  the  crowd.  There  was  a  strange  glare  in  his  eye. 
Never  had  lie  seemed  so  tall  and  powerful.  Hudson  shud 
dered  when  the  "dude  miner"  stood  over  him,  putting  a  long 
finger  close  by  his  nose. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Nason.  "I  have  heard  every  word  that 
has  been  spoken  since  I  came  in  here,  and  let  me  tell  you  that 
I  have'  no  Tear  of  you.  I  would  like  to  know  your  trouble. 
1  think  I  can  just  about  guess  it  when  I  tell  you  it's  whiskey. 
When  you're  a  little  more  sober,  come  around  and  we'll  talk 
it  over.  If  there's  a  difference  between  us,  I  want  it  settled, 
and  the  quicker  it  is  done  the  better  it  will  suit  me." 

Hudson's  dark  face  turned  pale.  He  liked  pluck.  Deep 
down  in  his  heart  he  knew  he  ought  to  like  Nason.  He 
finished  his  drink,  and  was  making  ready  to  answer  when  a 
miner  poked  his  head  through  the  door  and  yelled:  "The 
foreman  wants  you  up  at  the  mine,  Hudson.  There's  a  bad 
slip  on  the  800." 

Instantly  the  super  forgot  his  row.  The  Gold  Bug  was 
above  everything  to  him.  '"Are  thev  catching  up  with  'err" 
lie  asked. 

"Catch  up,  the  devil!"  the  miner  replied.  "N~othin' 
can  hold  'er !  All  the  boys  are  out !" 

"The  lazy  cowards !''  Hudson  roared.  He  dashed 
through  the  door  and  up  the  trail.  "We've  got  to  hold  'er ! 
If  that  stope  comes  in  the  shaft  and  lower  level  will  be 
choked  for  a  month." 

All  of  .the  night  shift  was  huddled  around  the  collar  of 
the  shaft;  driven  from  the  mine  by  the  sinking  wall  below. 
Xot  one  would  return. 

Simpson,  the  foreman,  was  desperately  trying  to  find 
Iwo  men  to  go  below  with  him  and  drive  the  slip  back. 


THE  GOLD  HLTG  STORY  BOOK.  19 

"There's  no  use.  We  can't  catch  up  with  'er,"  said  one 
of  the  crew,  hopelessly. 

Hudson  and  the  foreman  stepped  on  the  cage.  "We 
want  another  man!"  they  cried. 

The  crew  drew  back. 

"Quick !"  yelled  Hudson,  as  he  reached  for  the  bell  wire. 

"Hold  a  second !"  said  a  voice  from  down  the  trail,  and 
a  man,  charged  up  and  leaped  aboard  the  platform. 

"Ding !  Ding !"  sounded  the  engineer's  bell,  and  the 
cage  dropped  down  the  shaft. 

Hudson  lighted  his  candle  on  the  way  down,  and  held 
it  aloft. 

"Damme,  if  it  ain't  the  dude!"  he  exclaimed,  when  his 
candle  revealed  the  white,  smooth-shaven  face  of  The  Thor 
oughbred.  "I  like  your  stuff  anyhow." 

"Here  we  are,"  Simpson  announced  as  the  cage  stopped 
with  a  jerk  on  the  800-foot  level.  "And  it's  hell  we're  in,  or 
I'm  a  fiddler." 

With  candles  lighted,  the  three  stepped  into  the  dark 
tunnel.  It  was  like  stepping  into  a  black,  intensely  black 
thunder  cloud.  All  around  and  above  them  the  mountain's 
heart  throbbed  and  palpitated,  loosening  the  earth  and  drop 
ping1  quartz  shale  like  leaves  in  a  windstorm. 

The  noise  was  deafening.  Timbers  cried  and  groaned, 
as  in  the  agony  of  despair  under  their  mighty  load  of  sink 
ing  ground.  Now  and  then  a  smaller  pine  stull  broke  with 
a  snap  and  a  report  like  a  rifle  shot.  The  great,  gaping 
stope,  opening  deep  into  the  bowels  of  the  underworld,  spilled 
«|iiai'tz  from  its  yawning  maw  like  water. 

It  was  a  deal  to  test  the  nerve  of  brave  men.  Hudson 
and  the  foreman  turned  sick.  The  Thoroughbred  was  the 
first  to  step  forward. 

"Hold  a  minute,"  said  Hudson.  "I'll  ring  for  timbers." 
Me  pulled  the  bell  wire  and  the  cage  shot  upward. 

Then  he  ran  under  the  sinking  mountain,  jabbing  the 
beak  of  his  candlestick  into  the  hanging  wall.  "She  ain't 
cracked  yet,"  he  yelled.  "But  she's  comin'  down  fast,  and 
will  soon  choke  'er  up  unless  held  back.  We  must  drive  the 
timbers  under  her." 


20       THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

The  Thoroughbred  ran  up  the  slippery  ladder  into  the 
grinding,  snapping  maw  of  the  stope — into  the  very  jaws  of 
death.  "Pass  up  the  timber !"  he  cried. 

The  cage  dropped  down  with  stalls,  jacks  and  wedges. 
The  foreman  lifted  a  load  and  passed  it  up.  The  Thorough 
bred  seized  a  pine  and  drove  the  timber  home  with  a  single 
blow. 

Hudson*s  eyes  opened  wide  in  admiration.  He  had 
never  seen  stulls  handled  by  such  a  man-machine.  He 
backed  out  to  give  the  swinging  jack  room,  and  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  ladder  to  hand  up  the  braces. 

The  shrieking,  grinding  din  increased  in  fury.  The 
mountain  kicked  and  plunged.  It  was  as  if  all  the  demons 
of  the  lower  world  were  holding  high  carnival  in  the  Gold 
Bug's  labyrinths. 

The  cage  flew  between  the  surface  and  the  800.  Timber 
after  timber  was  passed  up  and  driven  home.  It  was  three 
men  against  an  avalanche — three  men  propping  up  a  topp 
ling  mountain. 

Little  by  little  the  men  gained  ground.  Slowly  the 
creaking  and  grinding  ceased,  and  the  hanging  wall  settled 
firm  on  its  new  foundation.  Heavier  timbers  were  piled  at 
the  base.  With  a  final  groan  the  mountain  quieted., 

At  the  last  moment  a  slip  occurred  near  the  stope/s 
mouth,  threatening  to  bury  Hudson  under  two  tons  of  loose 
shale.  The  Thoroughbred  saw  it  coming,  and  whirling 
around,  drove  a  stull  beneath  it.  The  super  was  saved,  but 
the  slip  parted  in  the  middle  and  caught  Nason  across  the 
chest,  throwing  him  flat  and  pinning  him  to  the  floor. 

They  dug  him  out  and  tottered  weakly  to  the  cage,  car 
rying  him  between  them.  He  was  limp  and  drenched  with 
perspiration.  Blood  flowed  from  a  bad  cut  on  his  head. 

They  doubled  him  up  on  the  cage  platform  and  rang 
the  bell.  They  shot  up  through  the  long  black  shaft,  past 
stations  now  still  as  sepulchres,  where  spent  candles  were 
spluttering  in  their  stocks.  A  moment  later  they  were  out 
in  the  cool  night  air. 

"Here  boys,"  said  Hudson,  kindly,  "take  the  dude  to  the 
boarding  house  and  call  the  doc.  He's  got  a  bad  scratch  on 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  21 

the  head,  and  is  gone  of  breath.     See  that  he's  cared  for 
proper." 

•  The  camp  doctor  worked  for  an  hour  over  The  Thor 
oughbred,  while  the  diggers  of  the  two  shifts  moved  about 
on  tiptoe,  their  hats  in  their  hands  and  their  hearts  in  their 
boots. 

•  Millie  helped  bandage  the  wounds  with  the  deftness 
and  skill  of  a  hospital  nurse.  It  was  her  pretty  blue  eyes 
that  beamed  first  into  the  face  of  Jim  ISTason  when  he  came 
back  to  consciousness. 

"He's  got  one  chance  in  a  thousand/'  said  the  doctor, 
turning  to  the  door. 

Millie  took  that  one  chance  and  staked  her  life  upon  it. 
And  she  won,  though  it  was  a  long,  hard  struggle. 

Hudson  kept  The  Thoroughbred  on  regular  pay  all  the 
while  he  was  down.  When  he  donned  his  boots  again,  it  was 
to  become  foreman  of  the  day  shift. 

And  when  that  third  great  event  occurred  in  the  Gold 
Bug  the  super  sent  to  Boulder  for  a  swallow-tail  coat.  This 
was  a  time  when  Corduroy  wouldn't  do — for  he  was  best  man. 


f 
t 

1                                     1 

t 

BECAUSE  of  FANNIE 

l                                          I 

'  1 1  K  X  Andy  Morris  and  Fannie  came  to  Gold  Bug, 
business  in  camp  took  a  decided  turn  for  the  better. 
Not  that  business  was  ever  really  bad  there,  but  be 
cause  Andy  was  wise  in  the  way  of  business  men,  and — well, 
Fannie  was  his  business  partner. 

He  bought  the  camp  store  and  turned  in  broadside  to 
the  tailings-]) iked  road,  otherwise  known  as  "Grand  avenue/7 
He  built  a  long  shady  porch  in  front,  and  made  two  entrances 
to  the  -store  instead  of  one.  A  partition,  with  bearskin  por 
tieres,  divided  the  two  departments.  On  one  side  Fannie  sat 
perched  on  a  stool  behind  the  counter,  to  hand  out  the  mail. 
She  was  also  within  reach  of  the  plug  tobacco,  fine  cut, 
cheroots  and  cigarettes.  In  a  little  while  every  digger  in 
camp  bought  his  smoke  weed  of  Fannie. 

On  his  side  of  the  partition  Andy  Morris  carried  a  won 
derful  and  miscellaneous  assortment  of  goods.  Some  were 
sold  wrapped  up,  some  in  boxes,,  but  the  greater  part  wrent 
out  in  bottles.  The  counter  was  hard  and  smooth,  much 
like  a  bar,  and,  while  the  goods  in  sight  were  principally 
miners'"  boots,  overalls  and  canvas  coats,  the  commodity  of 
greatest  profit  in  which  Andv  dealt  could  be  drank  there  and 
then  at  the  time  of  purchase.  The  little  irregularity  of 
Andy's  only  having  n  government  or  "gallon  house"  license 
was  a  matter  for  Andy  alone  to  worry  over. 

It  is  doubtful  if  Andy  ever  worried  over  anything,  or 
found  pleasure  in  anything.  He  waited  on  every  customer 
with  gravity,  and  in  absolute  silence.  It  was  whispered 
around  camp  that  Andy  had  "a  past/'  but  as  he  never  alluded 
to  it,  none  questioned  him  about  it.  He  seldom  smiled,  and 
seldom  joked. 

Mart  Quinlan  was  the  only  man  in  camp  who  professed 
to  know  much  about  Andy's  past.  When  it  \vns  rumored 


24  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

around  that  the  old  man  had  in  early  days  been  the  proprie 
tor  of  a  bucket-of-blood  den  in  Leadville,  the  report  was  very 
naturally  traced  to  Quinlan.  No  denial  was  made,  and  the 
matter  would  have  remained  thus  had  not  Quinlan  one  day 
received  an  odd  epistle  through  the  mails.  It  came  in  a 
rough  manila  envelope,,  and  was  a  black-bordered  sheet,  bear 
ing  a  crudely-sketched  skull-and-cross-bones  and  the  warning : 
"CLOsE  yOuE  CLaMs  oE  YOU  wILL  Be  a  COLd 
FEItTeE." 

The  letter  bore  the  Gold  Bug  postmark,  and  Quinlan 
knew  it  had  come  from  someone  in  camp.  He  received  it 
during  the  distribution  of  the  afternoon's  mail ;  that  evening, 
when  the  crew  was  at  mess  and  while  no  others  were  around, 
Quinlan  sauntered  into  Fannie's  end  of  the  store,  bought  a 
pack  of  cigarettes,  joked  awhile  with  the  girl,  and  then  went 
around  through  the  other  door  to  Andy's  side. 

The  keeper  was  busy  arranging  a  new  shipment  of  rub 
ber  ponches  on  the  upper  shelf.  When  he  climbed  down,  the 
mysterious  letter,  with  its  black-bordered  warning,  was  spread 
on  the  counter,  and  Quinlan  was  holding  a  revolver  within 
three  inches  of  his  nose.  Andy  Morris  instinctively  raised 
his  hands.  Both  men  eyed  each  other  in  silence,  but  between 
them  flashed  a  glance  of  mutual  understanding. 

Just  then  Fannie  called  from  the  other  room:  "Daddy, 
your  coffee  is  ready  and  waiting.  Do  you  want  it  brought 
in?" 

The  keeper  did  not  answer,  and  the  girl  was  heard  to 
jump  -from  her  stool  and  come  toward  the  door.  When  she 
parted  the  bearskin  portieres  and  poked  her  round  face 
through,  Quinlan  had  tossed  the  revolver  to  an  inner  pocket 
of  his  coat  and  was  studiously  engaged  with  Andy,  examin 
ing  the  peculiar  texture  of  the  manila  envelope. 

"Why  didn't  you  answer  me,  daddy?"  she  asked,  im 
patiently.  "Do  you  want  your  coffee  brought  in?" 

"No;  I'll  come  for  it,  little  one,"  her  father  answered. 

Fannie  tarried  in  the  door,  and  a  mischievous  smile 
lighted  her  face.  "Can't  he  read  his  letter,  daddy?"  she 
said,  impudently.  "If  you  can't  make  it  out  for  him,  send 
him  around  to  me?" 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  25 

She  darted  from  the  door  and  disappeared.  The  two 
men  again  faced  each  other.  Quinlan  whipped  out  his  re 
volver  and  the  old  keeper  raised  his  hands. 

"Well/7  said  Quinlan,  finally,  "what  you  got  to  say  about 
it?" 

"To  say  about  what  ?"  the  keeper  replied,  as  if  unable  to 
understand. 

"About  this/'  Quinlan  informed,  indicating  the  letter 
with  a  slight  dip  of  his  revolver.  "You  sent  it.  I  want  to 
know  what  in  thunder  you  mean  by  it  ?" 

"You're  blabbing  around  camp  that  I  kept  the  Tivoli  in 
Leadville  during  the — 

"Well,  ain't  it  so?  Ain't  it  a  fact  that  you  were  there 
when  Red  McTurk  killed— 

"Shut  up,  man,"  said  the  old  keeper,  in  a  hoarse  whis 
per,  turning  strangely  pale.  "Fannie  will  hear  you." 

"You  don't  want  her  to  know  it?" 

"My  God,  no.  It's  not  for  her  to  know.  She  is  all  I 
have  since  Maggie  went." 

"Well,  keep  your  boots  on;  I'm  not  going  to  tell  her," 
Quinlan  assured.  "And  I  will  say  nothing  more.  Pm  sorry 
I've  said  what  I  have,  though  a  lot  of  this  talk  don't  come 
from  me.  But  I  don't  like  this  black-hand,  skull-and-cross- 
bones  way  of  telling  me  to  keep  still.  If  I'm  too  noisy,  come 
right  up  in  daylight  and  close  my  muffler.  I  will  tell  you 
that  I  know  all  about  it.  I  was  only  a  kid,  but  I  was  there 
when  it  happened;  however,  I've  got  sense  enough  to  keep 
still.  So  far  as  I  know,  you  never  done  anything  that  wasn't 
legitimate,  and  I've  got  no  kick  to  make." 

They  shook  hands,  and  a  little  later  two  glasses  clinked 
on  the  bar.  Quinlan's  revolver  went  back  to  his  pocket,  and 
the  keeper  reached  under  the  counter.  His  fingers  first 
touched  the  barrel  of  a  six-shooter,  and  lingered  momen 
tarily,  while  Andy  did  some  thinking;  then  they  passed  on 
to  the  long-necked  bottle  kept  for  special  purposes.  The 
cork  popped,  and  the  foaming  liquid  gurgled  into  the  glasses. 

The  mischievous  face  of  Fannie  again  appeared  at  the 
door.  "Don't  let  him  drink  his  whole  gallon  in  here,  daddy," 
she  said,  with  a  wink ;  "he  has  a  shift  to  work  yet  tonight." 


26  THE  GOLD  Hl'd  STOH)'  BOOK. 

The  portieres  dropped  and  the  girl's  face  disappeared. 
Quinlan  and  Morris  drank  their  liquor,  and  the  compact  of 
friendship  was  sealed. 

During  the  month  that  followed  Quintan's  visits  to  the 
cam])  store  became  more  frequent,  especially  to  that  end  of 
it  presided  over  by  the  winsome  Fannie.  Among  the  miners 
of  Gold  Bug  the  pretty  girl  had  many  admirers,  but  Quinlan 
proved  the  most  persistent  of  them  all.  He  had  decided, 
just  before  the  arrival  of  the  girl  and  her  father,  that  he 
would  leave  Gold  Bug  and  try  some  other  camp;  but  when 
Fannie  came  he  changed  his  mind.  He  was  a  rover,  a  soldier 
of  fortune,  a  seeker  after  pleasure  and  mischief,  and,  while 
the  Gold  Bug*  supplied  these  for  a  time,  it  had,,  just  previous 
to  Fannie's  arrival,  become  monotonously  dull. 

But  now,  at  the  close  of  his  shift  and  when  his  day's 
work  was  done,  he  would  saunter  down  to  -the  store  after 
mess  to  buy  a  new  pack  of  cigarettes  and  spend  a  half  hour 
with  Fannie.  Perched  on  her  high  stool,  with  her  cheeks 
in  her  palms  and  her  dimpled  elbows  on  the  counter,  the  girl 
t  would  stare  dreamily  through  the  open  door  while  Quinlan 
talked  in  his  quiet,  careless  way  of  a  world  the  girl  knew 
only  in  books.  He  had  circled  the  globe,  and  seen  service  -in 
every  mining  camp  from  Alaska  to  Australia.  Fannie  had  a 
pretty  trick,  when  he  had  finished  a  good  story,  of  withdraw 
ing  her  gaze  from  the  mountains  and  lifting  her  black  eyes 
directly  into  his  own.  It  was  this,  and  Fannie's  beauty  and 
Fannie's  fairness,  that  drove  Quinlan  to  believe  he  had  found, 
after  all  his  roving,  the  one  girl  who  would  make  him  happy. 

A  month  later  he  was  brought  out  of  'the  mine  with  a 
broken  leg,  as  the  result  of  a  fall  from  a  slippery  stope  ladder. 
During  the  three  weeks  he  lay  in  his  bunk,  one-half  his  body 
rigid  as  a  poker  in  its  splints  and  plaster,  Fannie  was  con 
stantly  by  him.  No  doubt  things  would  have  been  settled 
permanently  between  them,  and  at  once,  had  not  Andy  inter 
posed  an  objection.  He  couldn't  let  Fannie  go  just  yet. 
Fannie  was  all  he  had,  and  Fannie  was  young.  He  had  no 
particular  objections  to  Quinlan,  but  he  could  not  bear  to 
have  Fannie  leave  him. 

While    the    old    keeper's    objections    sounded    plausible 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       29 

enough,  Quinlan  knew  that  Andy's  plea  for  a  stay  of  pro 
ceedings  was  based  on  a  desire  to  have  the  girl  ultimately 
marry  someone  better  than  he.  Andy's  sole  ambition  was 
to  have  Fannie  gain  a  place  of  prominence  in  the  world,  and, 
since  she  possessed  neither  wealth  nor  learning,  this  could 
only  be  accomplished  by  her  marrying  a  man  who  would  lead 
her  up  fame's  ladder. 

When  he  was  able  to  walk,  Quinlan  went  out  on  a  short 
trip  to  Boulder.  He  returned  on  the  stage  in  company  with 
a  well-groomed  fellow  whom  the  miner  learned  was  a  govern 
ment  official.  And,  though  the  official  settled  back  in  a 
corner  of  the  coach  and  tried  to  sleep,  Quinlan  forced  him 
to  answer  a  few  tactful  questions,  put  for  a  purpose. 

When  they  reached  Placer,  Quinlan  called  Slivers,  the 
driver,  aside  and  asked:  "How  long  do  we  stop  here?" 

"Just  about  ten  rounds  of  the  second  hand.  We'll  hit 
the  alkali  just  as  soon  as  we  can  hook  on  a  fresh  team." 

"I  want  a  half  hour  here,  and  I  want  it  bad,"  Quinlan 
declared. 

"We're  a  half  hour  late  now,  and  the  mail  must  be  got 
through  on  time." 

"No  matter ;  I  must  have  a  half  hour.  There's  a  govern 
ment  hawk  on  board,  and  he  expects  to  swoop  down  on  Andy 
unawares  and  catch  him  with  a  row  of  glasses  on  the  bar. 
You  know  how  it  is — Andy  is  giving  us  a  square  deal  out  at 
camp,  and,  though  the  Dewdrop  owners  are  sore  and  have 
evidently  given  this  government  hawk  the  tip,  Andy  has 
forced  them  to  quit  the  prune  brandy  and  tobacco  juice  busi 
ness.  I  must  catch  Andy  on  the  'phone,  so  he  will  have 
ample  time  to  clear  his  bar  and  set  out  his  barrels." 

No  further  pleading  was  necessary.  Slivers  understood 
and  fully  appreciated  the  situation.  Though  he  was  never 
known  to  give  the  physical  condition  of  the  stage  serious 
attention,  and  had  frequently  dragged  it  in  on  three  wheels, 
he  nevertheless  inspected  it  critically  that  day  and  found  it 
badly  in  need  of  grease;  also,  he  found  three  nuts  loose,  two 
bolts  gone,  and  the  boot  straps  broken.  To  repair  and  ad 
just  all  this  required  a  full  half  hour,  and  while  the  govern 
ment  official  paced  the  hot  road  near  the  stable  and  cursed 


30  THE  (10 LI)  JiCU  WORY  BOOK. 

the  stage  company  for  sending  out  a  coach  that  was  ready 
for  the  junk  pile,  Quinlan  waited  for  his  "party"  in  the  near 
est  telephone  booth.  In  thirty  minutes  he  had  Andy  on  the 
line,  and  in  thirty  seconds  lie  sounded  the  alarm  that  caused 
the  old  man  to  drop  the  receiver  and  move  from  the  mine 
office  to  his  store  with  a  faster  pace  than  he  had  ever  before 
been  known  to  use. 

When  the  stage  and  the  official  arrived,  the  inspector 
made  directly  for  Andy's  place.  There  was  not  a  glass  in 
sight,  and  the  polished  bar  was  covered  with  "Bull-dog"  over 
alls,  miners'  hoots  and  slickers.  The  place  was  pronounced 
0.  K. 

Nearly  a  month  went  by,  and  things  moved  along  as  per 
usual.  Then  something  happened. 

In  a  steel  safe,  behind  Andy's  counter,  many  of  the  dig 
gers  kept  their  savings.  Not  caring  to  open  an  account  with 
the  Boulder  bank,  and  being  possessed  of  a  desire  to  have  ;i 
"nest  egg"  on  hand,  this  arrangement  proved  a  convenience. 
I  n  a  little  while  the  keeper  had,  in  addition  to  his  own  money, 
some  $4,000  in  the  safe. 

Quinlan's  visits  became  more  frequent,  and  he  was 
allowed  liberties  around  the  store  that  no  other  enjoyed.  He 
went  behind  the  counter,  either  on  Andy  or  Fannie's  end  of 
the  establishment,  at  will,  and  assisted  the  keeper  at  replacing 
goods  on  the  shelves.  Once  or  twice  he  helped  the  old  man 
count  the  money  at  the  close  of  the  day's  business,  and,  as  a 
recognition  of  his  supreme  confidence  in  him,  the  keeper  gave 
him  the  combination  to  the  safe. 

One  morning,  when  Andy  opened  up,  he  found  the 
money  missing.  The  several  smaller  bags,  containing  the 
miners'  savings,  and  the  keeper's  coin,  gold  and  silver,  was 
all  placed  in  a  larger  canvas  bag;  and  all  was  gone.  The 
safe  door  was  partly  open.  There  were  no  marks  or  scratches 
on  the  lock,  and  it  was  clearly  evident  that  the  combination 
had  been  worked.  The  old  man  knew  that,  besides  himself 
and  Fannie,  only  one  other  knew  the  combination. 

The  theft  was  reported  to  Hudson,  the  superintendent, 
and  before  the  noon  shift  went  on  the  news  of  it  had  spread 
to  every  corner  of  camp.  There  was.no  clue,  and  Hudson 


777 E  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  31 

was  making  ready  to  'phone  to  Boulder  for  the  sheriff,  when 
Quinlan  left  his  post  on  the  600,,  came  up  the  shaft  and  went 
oxer  to  the  camp  store.  He  called  out  the  "investigating, 
committee'  and  confessed  to  having  committed  the  theft. 

"I  took  it,"  he  said,  calmly.  "Go  tell  Hudson  to  send 
for  the  sheriff.  I  am  ready  to  take  my  medicine.'1 

The  "committee"  went  out  and  left  Quinlan  and  Andy 
alone.  The  old  man  leaned  over  with  both  hands  on  the 
counter  and  gazed  at  the  miner  in  a  stupefied  way.  Half 
dazed,  he  went  out  and  followed  the  "committee''  to  the  office. 
But  Hudson  sent  no  word  to  the  sheriff. 

Andy  returned  presently  and  found  Quinlan  still  stand 
ing  by  the  counter,  gazing  curiously  at  the  looted  safe. 

"No  need  of  the  sheriff  making  the  trip  up  here,"  Andy 
said.  "Court  meets  next  month,  and  I'll  guarantee  that 
you'll  be  there  when  the  gong  sounds.  There's  something 
about  this  business  I  can't  understand,  but  I'm  certain  you've 
la  ken  the  money  only  for  a  little  while.  Ain't  I  right?" 

"Yes;  you're  right,"  Quinlan  assured. 

"I  thought  so.  That's  why  I  know  you'll  be  handy 
when  you're  needed.  I'm  your  surety,  but  Hudson  declares 
that  if  it  takes  half  the  metal  of  the  Gold  Bug's  pay  streak 
to  cover  your  bond  he  will  see  that  it  is  stacked  to  keep  you 
out  of  jail.  Now,  out  yonder  is  California,  and  over  there 
toward  the  east  somewhere  is  Maine;  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  is 
down  south  of  Texas,  and  the  Canadian  line  is  up  north  here 
—that's  the  border  line  of  your  pasture  till  court  meets." 

The  old  man  took  Quinlan's  hand  and  clinched  it 
warmly.  He  then  led  him  through  the  bearskin  portieres 
to  Fannie's  end  of  the  store.  In  a  little  while  Fannie  knew. 
She  put  her  face  in  her  hands  and  her  elbows  on  the  counter, 
and  listened  to  him  as  if  he  was  telling  one  of  his  best  tales 
of  Australia.  But  there  was  no  happy  smile  at  the  close 
of  this  one;  instead,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and  in  their 
warm  depths,  glowing  with  tears,  Quinlan  read  the  story  of 
a  woman's  confidence  and  a  woman's  devotion.  She  raised 
her  hand,  and,  while  the  old  man  turned  to  view  the  pine- 
whiskered  summit  of  Cowhorn  mountain,  Quinlan  pressed 
the  soft  white  fingers  to  his  lips. 


32       THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

Quinlan's  confession  failed  to  clear  the  mystery  of  the 
theft.  Why  the  money  had  been  taken,  and  how  it  had  been 
used,  remained  unanswered  and  unsolved  questions.  He 
spent  but  little  for  drink,  and  took  no  part  in  the  game  over 
the  little  green  table  in  the  Dewdrop. 

Three  weeks  passed,  and  only  two  days  remained  till 
court  convened  at  Boulder.  Andy  had  hoped,  and  believed, 
Quinlan  would  return  the  money  before  court  time,  and  so 
waited  patiently.  But  when  the  time  for  trial  drew  near, 
and  Quinlan  still  showed  no  inclination  to  explain  the  mys 
tery,  the  old  keeper  began  to  lose  courage.  He  feared  that, 
after  all,  something  was  wrong.-  He  grew  less  talkative; 
more  silent.  His  hard  and  never-ending  work  also  told  on 
him,  and  the  combination  of  causes  was  bringing  a  serious 
change  in  the  old  man's  condition.  Frequently  Fannie  found 
him  walking  around  the  store  in  his  sleep,  and  was  finally 
obliged  to  lock  the  doors  and  hide  the  key  after  he  had  gone 
to  bed. 

The  day  before  his  going  to  trial,  Quinlan  called  on 
Andy  for  a  final  talk.  "I  must  go  down  tomorrow,"  said 
he.  "I'm  not  afraid,  and  won't  back  down,  but  I'd  like  just 
a  word  from  you  about  it  before  I  go.  It  would  make  me 
feel  better." 

"A  word  about  what?"  bluntly  asked  the  keeper. 

"Why,  about- the  robbery.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I 
can't  make  it  any  plainer." 

"Well,  one  of  us  must  be  daffy  as  a  French  fiddler," 
Andy  replied,  nonplussed  by  Quinlan's  words.  "All  I  know 
about  it  is  what  you  have  told  me,  and  that  is  damned  little." 

Unsatisfied,  Quinlan  turned  and  walked  out,  leaving 
Andy  mumbling  over  the  counter. 

That  night  the  old  keeper  was  seized  with  another  attack 
of  sleep-walking.  He  donned  his  clothes,  crawled  through 
the  window,  and  was  wandering  around  the  house  before 
Fannie  missed  him.  She  hurried  out,  and  followed  him. 
He  crossed  the  porch,  followed  the  path  to  the  back  yard,  and 
was  digging  under  a  pile  of  dry  goods  boxes  behind  the  store. 
Just  as  the  girl  came  up,  he  hauled  out  a  heavy  canvas,  bag 
that  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  fell  with  a  jingle. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  33 

"How  in  thunder  did  that  get  out  here?"  Andy  asked 
alound,  when  Fannie  reached  him,  for  he  was  now  wide 
awake,  and,  with  Fannie,  stared  stupidly  at  the  bag  of  coin. 

They  carried  it  into  the  store,  lighted  a  lamp  and  counted 
it.  The  money  was  all  there ;  no  part  of  it  was  missing. 

Before  Hudson  or  Simpson  were  told  of  it,  next  morn 
ing,  Quinlan  was  interrupted  in  his  work  of  packing  his  few 
best  duds  into  a  canvas  telescope,  and  told  he  was  wanted  at 
the  store.  Believing  it  was  Fannie  who  wanted  him,  he  went 
immediately. 

Andy  met  him  at  the  door  and  led  him  around  to  the 
safe.  All  of  the  long-lost  money  reposed  snugly  in  the  vault. 

"There  will  be  no  need  of  your  going  down  to  stand 
trial,"  Andy  said.  "And  now,  only  one  thing  remains  un 
solved — why  in  thunder  did  you  confess  a  crime  you  took  no 
part  in?" 

Quinlan  dropped  his  head,  like  a  chided  boy,  and  after 
a  little  while  explained:  "I  saw  you  creep  out  the  window 
that  night  with  the  bag  in  your  hand.  I  was  going  to  my 
bunk  at  the  close  of  a  short  shift.  I  saw  you  sneak  around 
the  store  with  it,  but  did  not  follow  you.  I  never  knew 
where  you  put  it.  I  didn't  know  you  were  asleep.  I  thought 
you  were  taking  it  for  her — you  had  said  you  needed  more 
money  to  send  her  East  to  school." 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Andy,  taking  Quinlan's  hand. 
"I  understand  it  all  now.  But  Fannie  won't  go  East  to 
school.  She  might  get  fool  notions  in  her  head.  I  owe 
you  a  lot  Mart,  but  the  best  I  can  do  is  to  give  you  Fannie. 
She  is  all  I  have,  and,  though  the  sacrifice  is  great,  I  gladly 
make  it  for  you.  Go  in  and  meet  her;  she  is  waiting  for 
you." 


ON  AND  OFF  THE 
WATER  WAGON 

rocking  Concord  rolled  into  Gold  Bug,  leaving  a 
long  trail  of  dust  in  its  wake.  Most  of  the  diggers  of 
the  night  shift  had  crawled  out  of  the  bunkhouse  and 
were  stretching  their  limbs  and  killing  time  around  the  camp- 
store.  Some  where  down  at  the  Dewdrop  imbibing  goose 
berry  champagne  and  prune  wine. 

Slivers  did  not  bring  the  coach  up  to  the  store  first,  to 
throw  the  mail  bags  down,  as  was  his  usual  custom,  but  cut 
across  the  tailings  pile  toward  the  boarding  house.  Neither 
did  Slivers  deign  to  notice  the  group  in  front  of  the  store. 
He  held  the  ribbons  with  the  style  of  a  band-wagon  driver. 
He  kept  his  eye  on  the  leaders,  and  wore  his  hat  tilted  well 
back  toward  the  southeast. 

Though  in  matters  generally  Slivers  was  an  enigma,  as 
difficult  to  solve  as  a  Chinese-  puzzle,  he  was  easily  under 
stood  when  he  arrived  each  day  with  the  stage.  Hat  well 
down  over  his  eyes  and  lines  loose  on  the  tongue  meant 
empty  stage  and  a  dry  trip.  Swinging  his  hat,  yelling  "cara- 
hoo-oo"  and  cracking  his  blacksnake  over  the  leaders  just  as 
he  came  up  the  hill  meant  a  drummer  on  board  with  samples 
of  Kentucky  hardware  for  the  Dewdrop. 

But  when  Slivers  failed  to  stop  first  at  the  store,  failed 
to  throw  down  the  mail  bags  which  the  contract  between  the 
stage  company  and  Uncle  Sam  explicitly  stipulated  must  be 
unloaded  first  of  all — when  he  failed  to  give  the  group  in 
front  of  the  store  a  single  glance  of  recognition,  it  was,  as 
Tony  Bill  expressed  it,  "A  dollar  agin  a  birdcage  that  Slivers 
brought  somethin'  done  up  in  calico  inside  the  coach." 

And  so,  while  the  coach  rocked  across  the  white  tailings 
pile  to  the  boarding  house,  the  diggers  off  duty  begun  hur 
ried  preparations  to  beautify  themselves,  absolutely  certain 
that  something  feminine  was  coming  into  camp.  They 


36  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

slapped  the  quartz  dust  from  their  clothes  with  slouched 
hats.  They  combed  their  hair  with  their  fingers,  and  all 
made  a  lively  scramble  for  the  one  blacking-brush  in  camp. 

Some  finished  their  toilet  in  time  to  cross  the  camp  and 
see  Slivers  jump  down  from  the  box,  take  his  hat  in  his  left 
hand,  make  a  courtly  bow,  and  poke  his  long  right  arm  into 
the  open  door  of  the  stage. 

In  a  moment,  something  tall  and  pretty,  and  clad  in  a 
smart  dust  coat,  stepped  out.  It  had  brown  hair,  an  oval 
face,  and  big  blue  eyes.  It  cast  a  half-frightened  look  at  the 
rough-and-ready  men  who  surrounded  the  stage.  Trowing  a 
timid  glance  from  one  to  the  other,  the  pretty  creature  turned 
quickly  and  retreated  into  the  boarding  house.  Slivers  fol 
lowed  as  far  as  the  door  with  a  load  of  grips  and  bundles. 

The  diggers  assembled  at  once  in  the  Dewdrop  to  discuss 
the  new  arrival.  She  had  come  unheralded.  Whence  and 
why,  were  questions  of  intense  interest  and  immediate  specu 
lation. 

"She's  no  hash  slinger,  I'll  gamble  my  wad  on  that," 
Bensen,  one  of  the  night  bosses  declared.  Her's  ain't  the 
style  that  throws  soup  plates  and  mush  bowls.  Did  you  see 
them  big  peepers  of  hers  ?  Why,  say,  a  square  look  from  'em 
would  melt  the  base  end  of  a  Swiss  glacier.  She's  a  lady, 
I'm  tellin'  you,  a  tip-top  lady,  and  I've  got  an  argument  for 
the  one  who  says  she  ain't." 

"She  must  be  a  first  niece  or  a  second  cousin  of  the  gen 
eral  manager,"  said  Jackson,  the  pump  man.  "She's  got 
tired  o'  smellin'  gasoline  and  has  come  out  to  breathe  pine 
ozone  a  while.  Did  you  see  them  glad  clothes  she  wore? 
Every  thread  of  'em  made  to  measure." 

"Just  another  bunch  of  calico,  and  another  bundle  of 
trouble  for  Gold  Bug,  that's  all,"  Simpson,  the  foreman,  de 
clared  with  evident  disgust. 

"Shut  up,  you  crabbed  old  bach,"  shrieked  Tony  Bill. 
"Get  back  in  your  shell  and  stay  there." 

Thus  the  discussion  ended.  When  the  diggers  filed  in 
to  supper  that  night,  searching  glances  were  thrown  from 
corner  to  corner,  but  the  timid  creature  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
The  Old  Woman  was  provokingly  silent.  Her  stoical  face 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  37 

was  as  expressionless  as  the  Sphinx.  Those  who  ventured 
a  question  were  curtly  told  that  they  would  know  in  plenty 
o'  time." 

Next  morning  the  diggers  of  Gold  Bug  were  startled  by 
seeing  a  little  tin  sign  hanging  outside  the  door  of  the  board 
ing  house  "parlor."  The  words  of  the  placard  were  painted 
in  yellow,  on  a  red  background,  and  said : 

"Miss  Lola  Langhorn,  Dentist.  Teeth  Extracted  With 
out  Pain." 

The  "parlor"  was  the  one  room  of  the  boarding  house 
that  the  Old  Woman  held  in  absolute  reserve.  Its  rag  carpet 
was  spared  the  merciless  trample  of  miners'  boots.  Its  sofa 
had  not  been  sat  on  enough  to  take  the  squeak  from  the 
springs.  It  was  kept  in  order  for  "company,"  the  missionary 
who  came  out  at  long  intervals,  and  the  general  manager  who 
visited  the  Gold  Bug  regularly  on  the  15th  to  pay  off  the  crew. 

But  the  "parlor"  was  put  to  a  different  use  this  time. 
The  big  armchair  was  hauled  to  the  center.  The  stand  was 
drawn  alongside,  and  piled  with  an  array  of  forceps,  pliers 
and  tongs  sufficient  to  chill  the  blood  of  an  army  surgeon. 

The  diggers  paused  to  read  the  sign  as  they  went  in  to 
breakfast,  and  each  halted  curiously  in  the  door.  Each  one 
saw  the  big  chair,  and  the  instruments  of  torture  on  the 
stand.  But  it  was  the  creature  sitting  at  the  window,  studi 
ously  reading  a  novel,  and  apparently  oblivious  to  their  curi 
ous  gaze,  that  held  each  digger  overtime  in  the  door.  She 
was  daintily  dressed  in  a  gown  that  was  all  lace  and  ruffles 
and  tucks;  her  shapely  white  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbow, 
and  her  hair  was  piled  in  a  mass  of  brown  on  her  head. 

When  breakfast  was  nearly  over  Miss  Langhorn  came 
into  the  dining-room  and  was  seated  at  a  little  table  that  the 
Old  Woman  had  arranged  for  her.  She  threw  a  pretty  smile 
around  the  rough  board.  As  each  digger  believed  the  smile 
was  for  him,  the  momentary  embarrassment  caused  an  upset 
of  three  cups  of  coffee,  and  Tony  Bill  dropped  a  hotcake  into 
Simpson's  mush. 

The  inhabitants  of  Gold  Bug  had  never  realized  that  a 
dentist,  or  "dentistess,"  as  Slivers  called  this  one,  was  so 
badly  needed  in  the  camp.  Before  Miss  Lola  Langhorn's 


38  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

sign  had  been  out  six  hours  every  digger  of  the  day  and  night 
shift,  with  the  exception  of  Simpson,  was  either  taken  with 
a  severe  toothache  or  discovered  they  had  a  molar  or  two 
they  really  didn't  need. 

Since  his  official  position  gave  him  greater  license  on 
his  time,  or  at  least  on  the  manner  of  using  it,  Hudson,  the 
super,  had  a  decided  advantage  over  the  others,  and  was  the 
first  to  call  on  the  lady.  He  had  a  "jaw  tooth"  that  had 
troubled  him  since  he  had  left  the  Silver  Bell,  ten  years  be 
fore — must  have  been  the  arsenic  in  the  water  over  at  that 
camp. 

The  super  indicated  the  side  where  the  fractious  tooth 
was  located,  and  the  young  lady,  with  dainty  care,  made  an 
examination.  But  she  found  the  teeth  on  that  side  as  sound 
as  the  Gold  Bug's  bullion,  and  Hudson  was  obliged  to  admit 
his  mistake — the  bad  tooth  was  on  the  other  side.  Finally  a 
tooth  was  found  that  needed  a  crown,  and  still  another  that 
needed  filling.  Much  to  the  super's  joy,  he  made  an  appoint 
ment  for  one  hour  with  the  fair  dentist  every  morning  till  his 
teeth  were  put  in  order. 

After  supper  that  evening  a  half-dozen  diggers  were 
waiting  their  turn  in  the  "parlor."  To  make  their  affliction 
more  genuine,  some  of  them  wore  bandages  around  their 
"swollen"  cheeks.  Before  the  day  was  done,  the  lady  had 
made  appointments  enough  to  cover  the  next  two  weeks; 
truly,  she  filled  a  "long-felt-want"  in  Gold  Bug. 

But  Miss  Langhorn  carried  her  work  beyond  that  of  ex 
tracting  teeth  and  building  crowns.  While  she  worked,  she 
talked.  It  was  principally  this  talk  that  made  the  operation 
painless,  for  there  was  music  in  her  words,  and  every  digger 
gave  ear.  Whenever  she  caught  the  scent  of  liquor  (and  she 
caught  it  every  time  a  patient  came  in)  she  used  the  odor 
as  fit  excuse  for  a  temperance  talk.  She  hated  liquor,  and 
intimated  that  she  could  not  like  a  man  who  drank. 

As  a  consequence,  various  forms  and  kinds  of  "breath 
killers"  were  tried,  but  the  lady  could  smell  the  whiskey 
through  all  of  them.  Thus  only  one  thing  remained — that 
was  to  quit — get  on  the  water  wagon.  So  there  was  a  de 
cided  falling-off  in  business  at  the  Dewdrop.  Each  after- 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       39 

noon  the  barkeeper  found  time  to  come  out  in  front,  tilt  his 
chair  against  the  wall,  and  take  a  nap  in  the  sunshine.  This 
was  a  thing  before  unheard  of  in  Gold  Bug.  Even  the  de 
votees  to  the  little  green  table  lost  interest  in  the  game. 

The  fair  dentist  admitted  that  it  was  difficult  for  men 
accustomed  to  a  regular  toddy  every  day,  to  drop  the  bracing 
liquor  altogether,  or,  at  least,  to  let  go  suddenly.  Such  a 
shock  might  work  permanent  injury  to  the  strongest  man 
nerve,  as  well  as  to  his  nerves.  She  said  the  man  accustomed 
to  his  night's  nightly  or  his  morning^s  morning  could  soon 
overcome  the  habit  entirely  by  taking  that  one  glass  between 
four  and  five  a.  m.  After  the  diggers  of  Gold  Bug  had  given 
this  a  few  trials  and  hammered  the  Dewdrop  door  down  in 
a  frantic  effort  to  wake  up  the  barkeeper,  they  concluded  that 
the  lady  was  quite  right — such  treatment  would  cure  any  man 
of  the  drink  habit. 

Never  was  a  woman's  humanizing  influence  more  deeply 
felt.  Gold  Bug  became  strangely  quiet  and  calm.  Slivers 
declared  it  was  like  disturbing  a  camp-meeting  to  drive  his 
four-wheelers  into  camp  faster  than  a  walk.  Sunday  became 
a  different  day  from  that  the  diggers  had  known.  On  this 
day  the  shifts  changed,  and  the  whole  crew  had  five  hours  off. 
Previously  these  five  hours  was  a  time  for  the  biggest  drink 
ing  bout  of  the  week.  If  any  shooting  was  done,  it  usually 
occurred  on  Sunday,  as  all  disputes  of  the  past  six  days  were 
reserved  for  settlement  on  the  seventh. 

But  the  coming  of  the  fair  dentist  changed  all  this.  The 
barkeeper  snoozed  undisturbed  in  his  chair  all  of  Sunday. 
Miss  Langhorn  received  no  patients  that  day,  but  gave  a  talk 
—half  lecture,  half  sermon — from  the  boarding  house  porch. 

It  was  during  the  course  of  these  lectures  that  the  "Be 
Better  Society"  was  organized.  Its  roll  of  membership  in 
cluded  all  except  Simpson,  Slivers  and  the  barkeeper. 

The  perfecting  of  this  organization  practically  put  an 
end  to  business  at  the  Dewdrop.  Those  who  went  there  did 
so  infrequently.  Fault  was  found  with  "goods"  that  were 
pronounced  "bunkum"  before.  Jackson  dropped  a  glass,  half 
•emptied,  and  loudly  declared  that  it  would  give  a  Mexican 
burro  a  fit  of  jim-jams.  His  accusation  that  a  plug  of 


40  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

tobacco  had  been  dropped  in  the  whiskey  barrel  and  water 
poured  in  made  the  barkeeper  reach  under  the  shelf  for  his 
six-gun.  A  hasty  remonstrance  on  the  part  of  bystanders 
prevented  possible  bloodshed. 

This  was  an  unfortunate  move  on  the  part  of  the  bar 
keeper,  as  it  slid  the  Dewdrop  to  the  ragged  edge  of  failure. 
"This  is  no  place  for  an  honest  man,"  Jackson  said,  chestily. 
"I'm  going  to  quit  you.  Since  it  is  no  place  for  an  honest 
man,  it  is  likewise  no  place  for  an  honest  man's  money,  so 
open  the  safe  and  give  me  my  wad.  I'll  cache  it  sommers 
else." 

"That's  right,  Jackson,"  voiced  another.  "You're  on  the 
right  lead.  I'll  move  my  pouch,  too.' 

"So  will  I,"  cried  a  third. 

"Give  me  mine,"  chorused  the  crowd. 

So  the  bags  were  drawn.  It  was  a  veritable  "run"  on 
the  camp  bank.  The  news  of  it  reached  the  lady  dentist.  She 
was  muched  pleased,  and  suggested  that  the  safe  be  brought 
to  her  room — nothing  would  disturb  it  there — and  such  a 
change  might  result  in  an  increase  of  savings. 

Miss  Langhorn's  proposal  was  adopted  without  a  dis 
senting  voice.  The  safe  was  the  property  of  the  diggers,  and 
was  removed  with  considerable  pomp  and  ceremony  from  a 
dusty  corner  of  the  Dewdrop  to  the  fair  lady's  shrine. 

Nearly  half  the  summer  went  by — the  driest  summer 
Gold  Bug  ever  knew.  The  "Be  Better  Society"  grew  and 
prospered,  and  Miss  Langhorn  became  little  short  of  an  angel 
to  the  miners  of  the  camp.  Though  they  all  liked  her  and 
showered  their  attentions  upon  her,  and  even  suffered  the  loss 
of  teeth  that  were  in  most  cases  badly  needed,  she  treated  all 
the  same  and  kept  them  at  a  sisterly  distance.  A  few  were 
so  fortunate  as  to  be  intimate  enough  to  call  her  "Miss  Lola." 
Hudson,  with  his  usual  gusto,  declared  that  she  was  the  lady 
for  him.  But  the  super  had  said  things  very  similar  to  that 
before. 

The  going  of  Miss  Langhorn  was  as  sensational  as  her 
coming.  It  was  not  so  much  her  going,  as  the  manner  of  it, 
that  took  the  diggers  of  Goul  Bug  by  surprise. 

It  was  on  Sunday  morning.     Both  shifts  were  off  duty. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       41 

The  men  had  made  a  change  of  flannel,  trimmed  their 
whiskers,  and  were  gathering  in  front  of  the  boarding  house 
to  hear  the  regular  sermon.  One  by  one  the  miners  came, 
throwing  themselves  at  ease  on  the  sod.  The  hour  for  the 
lady  to  appear  arrived,  but  no  lady  was  in  evidence.  They 
waited  ten,  twenty,  thirty  minutes,  but  still  the  door  to  her 
room  remained  closed.  The  conclusion  was  reached  that  she 
was  asleep.  Hudson  and  Simpson  strode  up  and  down  the 
porch  a  few  times,  their  heavy  boots  thumping  as  loudly  as 
hoofs  on  a  stable  floor.  Even  this  failed  to  bring  a  sound 
from  within. 

Then  Tony  Bill,  who  seemed  to  have  the  lady's  welfare 
more  at  heart,  surmised  that  she  was  ill. 

The  crowd  agreed  with  Tony  in  this  belief.  Hudson  and 
Simpson  promptly  apologized  for  their  disturbance,  and  sug 
gested  that  a  committee  of  two  be  appointed  to  wait  on  the 
sick  lady  and  ascertain  what  could  be  done  for  her.  The 
delicate  nature  of  the  task  required  men  of  especial  tact  to 
carry  it  out  on  strict  lines  of  etiquette.  Tony  Bill  and  Perry 
Mason  were  deemed  best  fitted  to  serve  on  the  committee, 
and  were  appointed. 

While  the  crowd  breathlessly  waited,  the  committee  tip 
toed  to  the  door.  Tony  tapped  lightly  on  the  rough  panel. 
There  was  no  response,  and  he  tapped  again,  louder  than 
before,  but  with  no  better  results. 

"Try  the  lock,"  said  a  voice. 

The  lock  was  tried,  and  yilded.  The  door  opened  and 
the  committee,  with  its  hands  over  its  eyes,  ventured  in. 
After  a  moment  of  suspense,  Tone  returned  to  the  door  and 
with  ghastly  face  announced: 

"She's  gone  I" 

The  crowd  stood  up.  The  same  thought  came  at  once  to 
every  digger's  mind,  and  found  expression  from  a  score  of 
lips : 

"Look  in  the  safe." 

The  combination  had  been  worked,  and  the  heavy  door 
opened  readily.  All  the  bags  were  inside,  each  with  its 
little  tag  and  the  name  of  the  owner.  But  they  had  lost  their 
plumpness,  likewise  their  weight. 


42  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

Following  this  startling  disclosure,  a  long,  long  silence 
fell  over  the  crowd.  At  last  Hudson  spoke,  but  what  he  said, 
though  a  matter  of  Gould  Bug  history  and  entirely  apropri- 
ate,  would  not  look  well  in  type. 

It  was  a  cruel  blow,  cruelly  dealt.  Not  such  a  blow  as 
the  footpad  deals  with  his  sandbag  to  rob  the  unsuspecting. 
She  who  took  the  hard-earned  savings  of  the  G-oul  Bug  dig 
gers  was  no  common  thief. 

A  horseman  was  dispatched  with  all  haste  on  the  trail 
now  eight  hours  old.  All  the  others  with  one  accord  moved, 
a  heart-broken.,  sullen  crowd  to  the  Dewdrop,  jerked  the 
sleeping  barkeeper  from  his  chair,  and  stood  him  at  his  post. 

Nobody  found  fault  with  the  "goods"  that  day. 


t 

eTke  TIN  HORN 
OF  GOLD  BUG 

t 

ID  you  ever  try  to  tell  a  stage  driver  anything? 

Well,   if  you   did   you  vented   valuable   oxygen  for 
nothing,  because  a  stage  driver  cannot  be  told. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  much  kinly  meant  advice 
was  lost  to  the  winds  when  the  Gold  Bug  stage  was  pulled 
up  suddenly  on  the  brink  of  Eoaring  Creek,  with  the  lead 
horses  on  their  haunches.  The  bottom  had  ripped  out  of  a 
great  black  cloud  up  in  Little  Annie  gulch,  and  the  murky 
water  rolled  into  Eoaring  Creek  in  heaving  swells. 

There  were  two  passengers  aboard.  One  was  a  black 
eyed  damsel,  with  cheeks  like  a  peach  blossom,  and  a  gaze  in 
them  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  tyro.  She  was  on  her  way  to 
Gould  Bug  to  spend  the  summer,  and  incidentally  help  the 
Old  Woman  of  the  boarding  house  sling  hash. 

So  much  for  the  girl.  Now  he  of  the  black  moustache, 
who  sat  with  Slivers  on  the  box,  though  possessing  every 
required  feature  of  a  first  class  villain  in  a  "meller-dram- 
mer,"  was  far  more  "drammer"  than  "meller;"  in  truth,  he 
and  Slivers  drammed  two  bottles  before  they  were  within 
seven  miles  of  Eoaring  Creek.  Then  they  drammed  no  more, 
because  there  was  no  more  to  dram.  And  with  nothing  better 
to  do,  Slivers,  during  the  easy  roll  down  the  long  grade,  be 
gan  a  systematic  course  of  questions,  calculating  to  bring  out 
the  stranger's  entire  family  history  from  a  to  izzard. 

But  the  third  or  fourth  quizz  from  Slivers  was  so  lack 
ing  in  tact,  and  came  so  direct,  that  the  stranger  was 
obliged  to  answer  in  kind.  He  told  the  driver,  that  if  it 
would  do  him  any  good  he  would  tell  him  his  name  was 
Thompson — front  name,  Jerry — was  a  sky-lighter,  born  in  a 
balloon — was  first  rocked  to  sleep  by  a  cyclone — first  learned 
to  walk,  talk  and  shoot  in  Texas — learned  the  alphabet 


44       THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

backwards,  because  it  came  easier  that  way  for  him  than 
frontwards — was  the  inventor  of  the  sleeveless  vest,  the  bot 
tomless  pail,  and  noiseless  cheese — also  had  some  dealings 
with  cowless  milk — and  was  the  first  man  to  ascertain  that  a 
feather,  dropped  from  a  height  of  7,777  feet  on  a  windless 
day  would,  if  it  struck  squarely,  break  a  two-dollar  bill. 

A  while  ago  we  left  the  lead  horses  on  their  hind  feet, 
at  the  brin  kof  Eoaring  Creek.  They  kept  that  attitude  but 
a  short  time,  while  Slivers  told  Mr.  Jerry  Thompson  what  he 
knew  of  stage  driving  in  general,  and.  Eoaring  Creek  in  par 
ticular.  This  was  done  because  Jerry  had  volunteered  to 
guess  that  the  creek  was  too  high,  and  the  ford  a  reckless 
chance.  He  didn't  care  himself,  would  just  as  soon  swim  the 
creek  as  ride  across  it  on  a  stage,  but  it  was  the  girl  he  was 
thinking  about. 

But  Slivers  stood  erect  on  the  box  and  measured  the 
murky  current  with  practiced  eye. 

Yes,  he  could  cross'er.  Of  course  he  could  cross  'er. 
Hadn't  he  crossed  'er  many  times  when  she  was  a  damsite 
higher?  No  man,  born  in  a  balloon,  or  reared  in  a  cyclone 
could  tell  him  anything  about  Eoaring  Creek.  Didn't  he 
know  every  foot  of  the  road  from  Boulder  to  Gold  Bug? 
And  couldn't  he  drive  over  it  in  the  dark,  blindfolded? 
Well,  I  guess  yes.  Tell  him  something  about  Eoaring  Creek, 
will  you;  and  while  you  are  in  the  telling  business,  just  tell 
him  "who  in  hell  is  driving  this  stage  anyhow." 

Before  Mr.  Jerry  Thompson,  or  the  girl  in  the  coach 
could  enter  serious  protest,  Slivers  cracked  his  whip  over 
the  leaders  and  the  stage  splashed  into  the  stream.  The 
driver  kept  his  eye  on  the  burned  pine  stump  and  the  clump 
of  chapparral  on  the  opposite  shore.  The  crunching  of  the 
wheels  on  the  gravel  told  him  his  course  was  right. 

And  Slivers  would  have  made  it  cleanly,  despite  the 
swimming  of  the  leaders  and  the  rush  of  water  into  the  coach, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  untimely  arrival  of  a  four-foot  wave, 
which  rolled  suddenly  out  of  Little  Annie  gulch  into  Eoaring 
Creek,  catching  the  outfit  broadside. 

Everything  was  off  its  feet  in  a  wink.  The  coach  rolled 
over  on  its  side,  and  the  driver  leaped  astride  a  wheeler. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  45 

Feminine  shrieks  of  terror  came  from  inside  the  over 
turned  stage.  The  coach  broke  loose  from  the  running  gear, 
and  was  tossed  about  like  a  cork  on  the  black  water.  The 
strager  poked  a  long  arm  through  the  door,  and  found  the 
girl,  bringing  her  out,  half  strangled.  Then  another  wave 
rolled  down  on  them,  and  tossed  them  clear  of  the  stage, 
pulled  them  under,  and  threw  them  well  out  toward  shore. 
The  man  struggled  in  the  mighty  grasp  of  the  avalanche, 
and  by  a  supreme  effort  and  the  favorable  buffeting  of  the 
waves  was  lifted  high  and  thrown  shoreward.  He  finally 
found  footing,  and  clambered  up  the  bank,  with  the  girl 
clinging  to  him.  Just  below,  Slivers  and  his  four  horses 
were  threshing  the  willows  on  the  border  of  the  creek.  A 
short  time  later,  the  whole  outfit,  minus  the  coach,  was  again 
ready  for  the  road. 

The  girl  and  the  stranger  entered  Gold  Bug  on  the  backs 
of  the  wheelers.  Slivers  follow  dejectedly  behind,  his  repu 
tation  badly  damaged,  and  his  sonscience  all  but  mortally 
wounded. 

When  a  man  saves  a  girl's  life,  the  girl  naturally  pre 
sumes  that  the  man  will  fall  in  love  with  her  at  once,  unless 
he  can  satisfactorily  prove  that  he  already  has  a  wife  or  two, 
and  is  unable  to  make  agreeable  terms  with  them.  And  this 
was  the  way,  beyond  doubt,  that  Nettie,  the  black  eyed  dam 
sel,  looked  at  the  Eoaring  creek  affair.  It  was  quite  evident 
that  in  Mr.  Jerry  Thompson  she  had  found  the  man  whose 
picture  she  had  carried  in  her  mind's  eye  since  she  was  sweet 
sixteen,  and  that  was  possibly — well,  six  years  ago.  Jerry 
was  tall  and  handsome,  polite,  graceful  as  a  dancing  master. 
He  wore  a  moustache  and  crimson  tie.  To  Nettie  Jerry  was 
a  real  man.  To  the  diggers  of  Gold  Bug,  Mr.  Jerry  Thomp 
son  was  a  tin  horn. 

There  had  been  tin  horns  before  in  Gold  Bug,  but  none 
like  Jerry.  He  was  not  of  the  sort  that  snoozes  in  the  bunk- 
house  all  day,  and  roll  out  with  the  night  shift  to  go  on 
duty — over  a  little  green  table  in  the  Dewdrop.  Jerry  hit 
the  cage,  and  dropped  down  the  shaft  with  the  rest  of  the 
crew.  He  handled  a  jack  like  a  Trojan,  and  Hudson,  the 
super,  declared  that  if  he  had  twenty  men  like  Jerry,  he 


46       THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

would  shut  down  the  machine  drills  and  save  the  cost  of 
making  steam. 

Jerry  dealt  the  cards,  but  it  was  always  after  the  shift 
was  done.  And  luck,  the  golden  winged  goddess,  never  failed 
to  touch  him  with  her  wing.  What  Jerry  earned  as  a  three- 
fifty  stoper  was  small  interest  on  the  wad  he  carried  from  the 
Dewdrop  every  night. 

Always  when  a  young  girl  came  to  Gold  Bug,  Hudson, 
the  big  buffalo  of  a  super,  made  a  fool  of  himself.  He  never 
failed  to  become  of  the  notion,  when  a  new  damsel  arrived 
in  camp,  that  he  was  a  ladies'  man.  Time  and  again  the 
sweet  things  turned  him  down,  but  old  Hudson  always 
bobbed  up  serenely  when  a  new  one  appeared.  The  Old 
Woman  of  the  boarding  house  was  largely  to  blame,  as  the 
super  was  a  great  man  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  determined 
to  get  him  married.  After  the  third  failure,  Simpson,  the 
foreman,  who  was  the  one  man  in  camp  that  could  talk  to 
Hudson  and  give  it  to  him  straight,  advised  him  to  get  a 
mop-squezeer  and  let  the  fairies  be. 

Nettie  was  the  fourth.  And  the  big  super  went  down 
on  his  knees  before  her,  just  as  he  had  done  with  the  others. 
He  bought  her  trinklets  by  the  wagon  load,  and  though  the 
girl  took  them  prettily,  she  reserved  her  best  smiles  for  Jerry. 

Hudson  grew  sullen,  and  moped  around  the  camp  like 
a  mad  Indian.  He  hated  Jerry,  but  he  couldn't  fire  him, 
because  he  was  too  good  a  man.  Jerry  took  it  all  as  a  mere 
matter  of  course,  and  gave  the  super's  bad  talk  no  heed. 
It  was  Nettie  who  did  the  courting,  and  Jerry  was  gentle 
man  enough  to  treat  her  fair. 

But  this  oft-repeated  condition  of  things  made  Simpson 
sore.  It  was  little  Simpson  knew  of  women,  and  still  less 
he  cared  to  know.  He  thought  Nettie  ought  to  be  given  a 
return  pass  to  Boulder,  with  an  additional  bonus  on  condition 
that  she  remain  away  from  Gould  Bug.  "Every  time  a  new 
bunch  of  calico  comes  in  over  the  trail,  the  devil  is  turned 
loose  in  camp,"  Simpson  declared  while  he  and  a  line  of  the 
boys  leaned  over  the  bar  in  the  Dewdrop.  "Every  time  a  new 
woman  comes  to  camp,  some  good  man  gets  killed,"  he  con 
tinued,  hammering  his  fist  emphatically.  "There's  the  one 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       47 

at  the  boarding  house  now;  while  she's  making  a  sucker  of 
Hud  by  taking  all  his  junk,  she's  also  arching  her  neck  and 
prancing  around  Jerry.  She  likes  Jud's  trinkets,  but  she 
cares  no  more  for  him  than  the  devil  does  for  holy  water. 
And  to  make  things  worse,  the  Old  Woman  is  mad  because 
the  girl  is  all  for  Jerry,  and  in  her  madness  is  setting  out 
hash  that  would  give  a  bulldog  the  cramps.  Why,  say,  there 
was  salt  enough  in  the  beans  today  to  have  pickled  a  sawlog, 
and  I  couldn't  detect  any  difference  between  the  taste  of  the 
pie  and  the  spuds.  Just  watch  what  I'm  telling  you — hell 
will  be  popping  in  Gold  Bug  before  the  girl  business  is  done 

Smipson  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  bar  with  a  jolt, 
that  made  the  cocktail  glasses  dance  on  their  stems.  The 
boys  finished  their  drinks  and  went  out.  Shortly  after, 
Jerry  came  in,  smiling  and  jovial,  and  broke  two  bucks  on 
the  bar  to  treat  the  crowd.  Then  he  settled  to  the  little 
green  table  and  started  the  ball  rolling. 

Just  before  the  third  play.  Hudson  dropped  in.  He  had 
been  drinking  red  eye  all  afternoon,  and  was  full  to  the 
muzzle.  He  walked  over  to  the  table,  and  blinkingly  sized  up 
the  situation.  "Hold  on  there,  Mr.  Dealer,"  said  he,  "I've 
got  a  few  plunks  left.  It's  me  that  calls  that  turn."  He 
leaned  over  the  table  and  examined  the  cards  more  closely. 
"That  looks  like  king,  queen,  jack.  By  the  general  laws  of 
health,  and  according  to  nature  that  means  king-queen,  or 
queen-jack.  To  me  it's  queen-jack." 

"I've  got  it  called  different,"  said  Jerry,  with  his 
customary  confident  tone.  The  cards  were  turned.  "You 
lose  your  money,  boss,"  remarked  Jerry,  scooping  the  pile. 

"And  there's  more  here  yet,"  said  Hudson,  as  he 
dropped  a  five-piece  on  the  cloth.  "That  may  go,  and  still 
I'll  eat  and  sleep.  Now  what's  the  turn?" 

The  game  went  merrily  on,  with  Jerry  always  in  the 
lead.  Before  a  great  while,  the  super  had  drawn  up  a  chair, 
dug  up  his  buckskin,  and  shook  out  a  hatful  of  twenties.  It 
was  too  blooded  for  the  average  digger,  and  all  backed  out 
and  left  it  with  Jerry  and  Hudson.  Three  hours  later,  the 
super  was  all  in,  and  made  a  loan  on  the  barkeeper  to  stand 
treat. 


48  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

Just  as  the  game  broke  up,  Simpson  came  in,  and  said 
there  was  a  bad  slip  on  the  400.  He  needed  another  man  at 
once,  to  catch  up  with  her.  A  hint  was  enough  for  Jerry. 
He  stuffed  his  wad  in  his  canvas  coat,  and  was  off  with  the 
foreman  up  the  trail.  A  half  dozen  of  those  who  remained, 
were  trying  to  get  Hudson  to  his  bunk,  when  someone  was 
heard  stamping  his  feet  outside.  The  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  a  man  stood  on  the  steps,  holding  the  reins  of  a  hard 
ridden  broncho. 

"Hello,"  said  he.  "I'm  the  deputy  sheriff;  just  in  from 
Placer,  a  little  dry,  thank  you,  and  I  don't  care  if  I  do."  He 
dropped  the  rains  and  sauntered  in.  "You're  Hudson,  the 
superintendent/'  he  remarked,  taking  the  super's  hand,  "and 
I'm  glad  to  know  you.  Excuse  my  presumption,  but  I'm 
looking  for  a  man.  Johnson  is  his  name,  but  he's  changed 
it  to  Thompson — Jerry  Thompson.  He  killed  a  greaser  over 
on  the  Brazo  last  month,  and  we  just  got  track  of  him  here 
two  days  ago.  I  must  take  him  at  once.  Is  he  in  his  bunk  ?" 

"He's  down  in  the  mine,"  some  man  volunteered  rather 
tardily. 

"Then  I'll  have  to  go  down.    Will  you  go  with  me?" 

"Sure,"  replied  Hudson,  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  hoist. 
The  cage  had  just  come  up,  bringing  a  mucker  with  a  hurry 
call  for  timbers. 

"She's  coming  in  on  the  400  bad/'  said  the  mucker,  as 
he  lifted  the  gate  and  rolled  a  car  of  timbers  on  the  lower 
deck  of  the  cage.  "Jerry  and  Simpson  are  driving  her  back, 
but  the  whole  upper  wall  may  settle  on  'em." 

"Mebbe  we'd  better  wait,"  remarked  the  deputy,  as  he 
hesitated  near  the  shaft  collar. 

"Wait,  the  devil,"  roared  the  super.  If  you  want  your 
man,  come  down  and  get  him  fair.  I'm  going  down  anyhow, 
as  the  boys  need  help  most  likely." 

The  deputy  stepped  on  the  platform  with  Hudson,  and 
the  cage  dropped  down,  stopping  with  an  abrupt  jerk- on  the 
400.  The  super  pulled  a  candle  stick  from  a  station  post, 
and  the  two  started  down  the  drift.  A  hundred  yards  back 
a  ladder  ran  aloft  near  an  ore  chute,  and  up  this  the  two  men 
clambered  into  a  wide  stope.  A  dozen  diggers  were  jamming 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  49 

in  the  timbers,,  working  madly  in  the  candle-light.  Back 
under  the  maw  of  the  break,  were  Simpson  and  Jerry.  The 
whole  mountain  trembled,  and  the  great  stulls  groaned  and 
cracked. 

Hudson  left  the  deputy  abruptly,  and  rushed  to  the 
assistance  of  the  two  men  in  the  maw.  Impending  disaster 
sobered  him,  and  his  whole  thought  now  was  in  keeping  the 
Gold  Bug  in  operation.  Should  the  400  come  down  nearly 
the  whole  ore  reserve  of  the  mine  would  be  locked  up. 

"Gimme  a  jack,  quick/7  he  yelled.  "Ike,  run  to  the  sta 
tion  and  ring  for  bigger  timbers." 

The  deputy  stood  trembling  on  the  lower  edge  of  the 
stope.  Discretion  implored  him  to  retreat,  but  manliness 
and  duty  bade  him  remain.  He  climbed  up  higher,  and 
joined  the  crew  of  madly  working  men.  Twice  he  was 
brushed  aside  by  the  tall  and  powerful  Jerry.  Up  in  the 
maw,  loose  shale  rattled  down  in  a  stream,  or  dropped  by 
the  bucketfull  from  the  hanging  wall.  Then  came  a  dull 
rumble,  as  of  distant  thunder,  and  an  underground  whirl 
wind  fluttered  the  candles.  Half  the  crew  retreated  in  wild 
haste  for  the  shaft,  for  all  knew  the  meaning  of  it. 

Bearing  a  stull  as  big  as  a  sawlog,  Jerry  ran  under  the 
bulging  wall.  The  slip  split  in  twain,  just  as  he  drove  her 
home.  Then  followed  a  mighty  crash,  as  if  earth  was  torn 
apart.  Black  darkness  filled  the  stope,  and  the  maw  was 
choked  up  with  tons  of  crumbled  shale.  But  the  big  stull 
held  her  up,  and  the  stope  remained  open.  Hudson,  Simp 
son  and  the  deputy  were  locked  in  the  vault,  and  somewhere 
under  the  mass  Jerry  was  pinned  to  the  floor. 

The  super  found  a  match  and  lighted  his  candle.  Grab 
bing  a  pick,  he  began  digging  into  the  loose  rock.  "Dig  for 
God's  sake,  dig,"  he  yelled.  "Jerry  is  somewhere  under  here. 
If  he  hadn't  stuck  that  timber  under  her,  we'd  all  been 
squashed  like  a  spider  under  a  boot. 

At  last  they  found  him,  and  pulled  him  from  under  the 
mass  of  broken  quartz.  They  bore  his  long  and  apparently 
lifeless  body  out  between  them,  carrying  him  to  the  station 
where  the  cage  waited.  Up  on  the  surface  they  stretched 
him  out  on  the  cool  grass,  and  mopped  his  cut  and  bruised 


50  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

face.  When  his  eyes  opened,  the  first  thing  his  gaze  fell 
upon  was  the  deputy's  star. 

"I'm  your  prisoner,  pardner,"  'said  he  feebly,  "I  knew 
you,  the  minute  I  saw  you,  down  in  the  stope,  but  I  was  too 
busy  to  talk  to  you.  I  know  why  you  are  here,  and  Fm  ready 
to  go.  I  killed  La  Monte,  but  not  till  after  he'd  starved  his 
old  wife  and  almost  beat  the  life  out  of  Manzita.  I  caught 
him  beating  her,  and  told  him  to  quit.  He  kept  at  it,  and  I 
warned  him  that  if  he  wanted  to  live  he'd  have  to  drop  the 
gad.  A  fourth  time  I  caught  him  using  a  club  on  her,  and 
my  blood  boiled  hot  in  a  jiffy.  I  shot  him  while  he  stood 
over  Manzita  with  his  stick.  Manzita  is  here  in  camp.  They 
call  her  Nettie.  She'll  tell  you  that  what  I  say  is  straight. 
I  wouldn't  have  run  away,  but  I  coundn't  pound  the  truth 
into  those  greasers,  and  the  lost  no  time  spreading  the  yarn 
that  I  had  murdered  the  old  man  for  his  money.  But  I  can 
make  money  without  killing  men  to  get  it." 

"I  don't  need  to  be  told  that,"  the  deputy  replied.  "We'll 
go  down  to  the  bunk  house  and  wait  till  morning.  You're  in 
no  condition  to  travel  tonight." 

They  laid  him  on  a  cot,  and  the  deputy  sat  by  his  side 
all  through  the  night.  Now  and  then  a  miner  crept  in  to 
learn  how  he  was  getting  along.  The  officer  arose  every  little 
while,  and  walked  the  floor,  thinking  it  all  over.  It  was 
nearly  daylight,  when  he  lay  down  for  an  hour's  sleep.  When 
he  arose,  he  came  over  to  Jerry's  bunk,  and  the  bruised  miner 
opened  his  eyes. 

"Say,  Jerry,"  said  the  deputy,  "do  you  think  you'll  be 
able  to  ride  today?" 

"Yes,  easy,"  Jerry  replied. 

"Well,  we'll  hit  the  road  for  Placer  this  morning,  but 
I'm  going  to  lose  you  on  the  way,  understand?  I'm  an 
officer,  sworn  to  do  my  duty,  but  I'm  white.  You  saved  three 
lives  last  night,  and  already  had  one  to  your  credit  when  you 
put  old  La  Monte  out  of  the  way.  I'm  going  to  'phone  in  my 
resignation  as  soon  as  I  reach  Boulder,  as  I  want  to  get  at 
something  a  little  more  decent.  You  can  leave  a  note  and 
explain  it  all  to  the  girl.  It's  only  twenty  miles  to  the  Ari 
zona  line,  and  you  can  both  be  on  the  other  side  by  tomorrow 


,  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       51 

morning.    Get  up.,  if  you  can,  and  crawl  into  your  clothes." 

Jerry  reached  under  his  pillow,  and  pulled  out  a  heavy 
buckskin. 

"No,  none  of  that,"  said  the  officer,  lifting  his  hand.  "It 
isn't  money,  it's  justice  and  fair  play  that  I  want,  that's  all, 
and  you  can't  get  either  down  there  with  all  those  greasers 
against  you.  I'll  leave  you,  for  a  while  now,  and  you  you  can 
get  ready  to  go.  I'll  have  the  boss  send  over  the  girl  to  see 
you." 

Two  hours  later  the  men  all  lined  up  on  the  boarding 
house  porch,  and  gave  Jerry  the  brawny  hand  as  he  passed 
along.  Nettie  came  out,  looking  her  prettiest,  and  the  dig 
gers  turned  round  to  admire  the  pine-whiskered  muntains, 
while  he  put  something  on  her  cheek  that  made  the  rosebud 
more  rosy. 

Just  before  climbing  into  the  saddle,  Jerry  gave  Hudson 
a  heavy  bundle,  with  the  remark  that  it  was  a  little  token  he 
wanted  to  leave  the  boys,  that  they  might  not  think  too  hard 
of  him. 

When  the  two  horsemen  were  out  of  sight,  the  super 
opened  the  package. 

"Well,  I'll  be—" 

Inside  were  forty  little  bags.  Each  bag  held  the  money, 
and  bore  the  name  of  each  digger  who  had  lost  over  the  green 
table  in  the  Dewdrop,  when  Jerry  dealt  the  cards. 

The  big  bag  in  the  center  of  the  heap  bore  Hudson's 
name. 

The  super  lifted  it  out  and  passed  it  over  to  Nettie. 
"This  one  belongs  to  the  widow,"  said  he. 


WHEN  THE 
PLUNGER  QUIT 


ALL  three  of  them  arrived  at  Gold  Bug  on  the  same 
stage.  Slivers  pronounced  them  the  queerest  trinity 
he  ever  pulled  over  the  road.  One  was  a  woman — a 
3'oung  woman,  with  a  sort  of  sad,  sweet  face,  set  well  back 
under  the  protecting  shades  of  an  old-fashioned  bonnet.  She 
sat  on  the  box  with  Slivers  the  whole  distance  from  Boulder, 
but  according  to  the  driver's  most  careful  calculations  she 
spoke  only  three  and  one-half  words  the  whole  trip. 

One  of  the  two  men  inside  was  the  woman's  brother. 
The  red-faced  fellow  who  sat  with  him  called  him  Dick,  and 
referred  to  the  woman  as  "Miss  Lucy." 

Though  he  addressed  him  thus  familiarly,  the  red-faced 
man  had,  as  a  matter  of  truth,  never  met  either  of  them 
before  he  boarded  the  coach  at  Placer.  But  he  belonged  to 
that  world-wide,  giant-hearted  class  who  receive  the  universe 
in  open  arms,  regardless  of  class,  color  or  creed.  He  later 
apllied  for  work,  and  when  Hudson  signed  him,  he  put  down 
his  name  as  Mark  Blevins.  To  the  diggers  of  Gold  Bug,  and 
more  especially  to  those  who  tarried  to  win  or  lose  over  the 
little  green  table  in  the  Dewdrop>  he  became  known  as  "The 
Plunger." 

"Miss  Luc)',"  as  all  the  diggers  learned  to  call  her,  was 
the  first  real  angel  that  ever  entered  Gold  Bug.  Being  of  the 
type  feminine,  she  was  held,  for  a  time,  with  no  little  sus 
picion  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  camp.  This  was  done  with 
full  remembrance  of  past  experiences. 

But  Miss  Lucy  was  one  in  whom  even  the  woman-hater, 
Simpson,  could  find  no  fault.  In  due  time  every  miner  of 
Gold  Bug  was  convinced  that  she  was  sincere.  It  became 
evident  that  her  one  aim  and  purpose  was  to  do  good  in  the 
camp. 

There  was  an  empty  cabin  not  far  from  the  boarding 


54  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

house.  Miss  Lucy  tidied  it  up  and  kept  house  for  her  brother. 
She  came  over  each  evening  just  before  the  shifts  changed, 
to  read  her  Bible  and  sing  to  the  diggers.  The  songs  were 
new,  and  yet  not  new.  There  was  nothing  of  the  music  hall 
flavor  about  them ;  they  were  nearly  all  old-fashioned  ditties. 
She  would  begin  with  "Kock  of  Ages/'  "Lead  Kindly  Light/' 
and  "Nearer  my  God  to  Thee/'  and  when  the  miners  called 
for  more,  she  sang  them  of  "Barbara  Allen/'  and  "Sally  in 
Our  Alley." 

Miss  Lucy  carried  sushine  everywhere  she  went.  She  be 
came  a  sort  of  guardian  angel  to  every  whiskered  digger ;  and 
they  liked  her,  because  they  knew  she  was  sincere.  She  was 
everywhere  that  a  humanizing  word  or  a  gentle  hand  was 
needed.  When  a  miner  took  sick,  or  was  brought  up  the  long, 
dark  shaft  with  an  arm  gone  and  his  limp  body  shot  full  of 
quartz,  she  was  the  first  to  reach  his  side. 

Though  she  did  not  pound  temperance*  into  them,  the 
miners,  out  of  the  real  bigness  of  their  hearts,  met  one  even 
ing  in  the  Dewdrop  to  "put  and  carry"  several  motions  and 
adopt  resolutions  that  would  give  Miss  Lucy  a  better  under 
standing  of  the  conditions;  also,  it  would  raise  the  moral 
level  of  the  camp.  It  was  proposed  and  unanimously  car 
ried,  that  "On  and  after  this  date,  any  man  caught  drunk, 
except  on  the  two  days  immediately  following  pay  day,  would 
be  shot  on  sight,  provided  he  wandered  outside,  where  he  was 
in  danger  of  being  seen  by  Miss  Lucy."  It  was  also  decided 
that  all  disputes,  where  guns  were  used,  unless  proven  of  a 
very  pressing  nature,  must  be  settled  outside  camp,  or  out  of 
earshot  of  Miss  Lucy's  house.  And  while  the  assembly  was 
heated  with  the  passion  of  reform,  a  more  sweeping  measure 
was  proposed;  this  was  to  establish  regular  closing  hours  for 
the  Dewdrop.  This  evoked  general  discussion,  and  no  little 
argument.  After  three  black  eyes  were  registered  and  a  vol 
ley  or  two  of  artillery  fired,  the  question  was  brought  to  a 
vote.  It  failed  to  carry,  as  it  was  justly  felt  that  such  a 
measure  would  destroy  the  freedom  and  love  of  liberty  so 
much  cherished  by  every  digger  of  Gold  Bug. 

In  the  work  of  reform  Miss  Lucy  accomplished  less  on 
her  brother  Dick  than  on  any  other  digger  in  the  camp.  Per- 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       57 

haps  this  was  because  she  had  given  him  up  as  lost,  and  no 
longer  cared  to  waste  good  time  upon  him.  Anyway  he  could 
hang  longer  over  the  bar  and  faro  table,  in  proportion  to  his 
pay,  than  any  other  man  of  the  day  or  night  shift.  While 
other  of  the  men,  under  Lucy's  benign  influence,  were  turned 
from  the  broad  road  into  the  narrow  trail,  Dick  jogged  along 
the  broad  highway  with  absolute  unconcern.  His  sisters 
tears  and  pleadings  had  no  effect  upon  him. 

Regularly  each  pay  day  Dick  brought  his  "wad"  into 
the  Dewdrop,  and  after  breaking  the  crust  on  the  bar, 
loosened  the  sack  on  the  green  table.  The  Plunger  had  be 
come  regular  dealer  since  coming  to  camp,  and  it  was  The 
Plunger  who  got  Dick's  money;  also,  it  was  The  Plunger  who 
got  a  big  part  of  all  the  pay  day  money  of  Gold  Bug;  at  least, 
he  got  the  first  shot  at  it. 

One  night,  after  the  men  had  lined  up  at  the  office  for 
their  pay,  Dick  came  in  and  stood  over  the  table  where  Hud 
son  and  Jackson  were  making  a  desperate  effort  to  break  the 
bank.  Twice  they  came  near  putting  The  Plunger  ashore.  It 
was  a  blooded  game,  but  none  were  -too  blooded  for  Dick,  as 
long  as  his  money  held  out. 

"Here's  my  chance,"  Dick  remarked,  after  he  had 
watched  the  game  for  a  while.  He  dug  his  hand  into  the 
buckskin  and  pulled  up  four  twenties.  "What's  your  limit  ?" 
he  asked. 

"The  roof's  off,"  replied  The  Plunger. 

"All  right,  here's  a  double  eagle  on  the  bullet,"  Dick 
answered,  dropping  a  twenty  and  sliding  into  a  chair. 

"A  double  eagle  goes,  and  there's  more  at  the  mint," 
chimed  in  Hudson,  covering  the  bet. 

The  cards  were  turned.    Dick  lost. 

He  repeated  the  bet  and  lost  again. 

Then  he  dug  his  hand  into  the  sack,  circled  once  around 
the  chair,  and  tried  again.  He  won  next  time.  Won  again, 
then  went  three  times  to  the  bad.  Planked  up  the  fourth 
time  and  won ;  the  fifth  time  and  won.  Then  he  got  careless, 
let  his  whole  wad  on  the  copper,  and  dropped  it  all  in  the 
sink. 


58  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

After  each  of  these  experiences,  which  happened  regu 
larly  every  month,  Dick  went  home  blue.  Unlike  the  average 
man  of  the  green  cloth.,  he  was  a  hard  loser,  and  he  would  go 
to  his  work  the  next  day  as  suddenly  as  a  criminal  getting  in 
line  to  do  the  lockstep. 

So  it  happened  that  Miss  Lucy  met  The  Plunger,  and 
the  two  had  a  long  talk.  The  gamier  had  always  managed 
to  keep  a  safe  distance  from  her.  He  was  seldom  one  of  the 
group  who  heard  her  sing.  But  after  she  had  talked  to  him 
that  day,  and  walked  with  him  up  the  trail  to  the  collar  of 
the  shaft.  The  Plunger  was  become  of  a  different  turn  of 
mind. 

He  worked  like  a  Trojan  over  his  drill  that  afternoon, 
and  had  his  full  set  of  holes  ready  for  the  powder  an  hour 
before  shot  time.  He  worked  in  silence,  and  madly,  that  his 
muscles  might  keep  pace  with  his  brain,  for  he  was  think 
ing,  thinking.  A  new  vigor  and  a  new  life  had  entered  into 
him. 

Though  his  arms  could  swing  the  jack,  his  fingers  lost 
their  deftness,  and  he  dealt  the  cards  that  night  in  a  half 
hearted  way.  He  lost  on  every  turn.  He  seemed  to  court 
each  loss,  and  passed  it  up  with  a  smile.  By  10  o'clock  he 
was  all  in.  The  bank  was  empty.  He  arose  and  smiled  hap 
pily,  as  if  a  great  load  had  been  shifted  from  his  shoulders. 
He  offered  his  hand  to  Hudson,  for  it  was  Hudson  who  had 
driven  him  ashore. 

"You  certainly  die  game,"  said  the  super,  "I  like  your 
pluck.  Come  have  one  or  two  with  me." 

"No  thanks;  cut  me  out,"  The  Plunger  answered.  "I've 
quit," 

"You're  pipe-dreaming,"  Hudson  replied  amazed. 

"No,  I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight.  My  bank's  closed  for 
good,  and  I'm  on  the  seat  with  the  water  wagon  driver." 

The  laugh  that  followed  brought  no  smile  from  The 
Plunger's  resolute  face.  He  strode  out  of  the  saloon,  leaving 
the  crowd  gazing  at  the  door  in  mute  astonishment. 

From  that  time  on  The  Plunger  was  always  one  of  the 
crowd  who  tarried  on  the  boarding  house  porch  to  hear  Miss 
Lucy  sing.  They  had  other  talks,  long  and  quiet,  in  the 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       59 

shade  of  the  big  laurel  by  the  cabin.  Nearly  every  day  she 
walked  with  him  up  the  trail  to  the  shaft  house.  Sometimes 
she  pinned  a  mountain  daisy  to  his  jacket  just  before  he  went 
down. 

Though  The  Plunger  had  quit  his  old  tricks,  he  still 
called  in  at  the  Dewdrop  every  evening  to  meet  the  boys,  for 
he  was  the  same  jovial  digger  he  was  before  suffering  a 
change  of  heart,.  Another  pay  day  rolled  around,  and  on  the 
evening  following,  as  The  Plunger  entered  the  saloon,  he  met 
Miss  Lucy  near  the  door.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
a  tremor  in  her  tone.  She  begged  him  to  watch  her  brother 
Dick,  who  had  just  entered.  She  tried  to  get  him  to  stay 
away,  to  leave  his  money  at  the  cabin,  but  he  had  obstinately 
refused.  She  knew  he  would  gamble  and  drink  it  all  away  in 
one  night,  just  as  he  had  done  before. 

"He  won't  listen  to  me,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  he  will 
listen  to  you.  Don't  let  him  lose  his  money,  please  don't,  for 
my  sake." 

The  Plunger  would  have  waded  through  fire,  had  Miss 
Lucy  commanded  him.  She  had  said  enough  to  drive  him  to 
immediate  action.  "I'll  get  his  money,  and  return  it  to  you," 
he  declared,  turning  into  the  saloon. 

He  found  Dick  and  drew  him  aside.  Dick  insisted  on 
investing  a  portion  of  his  pile  in  blue  and  red  chips,  but  The 
Plunger  interfered.  Then  Dick  demanded  that  they  have  a 
little  game  of  their  own,  just  to  pass  the  time. 

"No,  I  can't  gamble,  even  with  you,  Dick/'  said  The 
Plunger. 

"H,  gambling,  your  Aunt  Peggy !  This  won't  be 
gambling — just  a  quiet  round  of  poker,  that's  all,  at  two-bits 
a  corner. 

Believing  it  a  chance  to  hold  Dick  from  the  green  table, 
The  Plunger  agreed  to  the  game.  They  found  a  table  well 
back  in  the  corner  of  the  saloon,  away  from  the  noise  and 
hub-dub  of  the  faro  circle  and  the  drinking  crowds  at  the  bar. 
They  cut,  and  Dick  won  the  deal.  The  cards  were  shuffled, 
and  after  a  round  or  two,  Dick  grew  impatient.  He  shoved 
back  his  chair  in  disgust,  and  exclaimed : 

"Bring  us  lemonade   and   filtered  water.     This   is  too 


60  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

tame.  It's  just  like  playing  casino  in  a  hayloft.  Let's  make 
the  ante  worth  while.  Why  not  call  it  four-bits  a  turn  ?" 

The  Plunger  hesitated.  He  also  carried  his  month's 
pay,  and  if  luck  went  wrong,  he  could  lose  it  all  during  the 
night,  even  at  the  rate  Dick  suggested.  But  the  touch  of  the 
cards,  the  clink  of  the  c^ips  and  the  spirit  of  the  game 
brought  the  old  desire  back  again.  The  boisterous  laughter, 
the  oaths  and  curses,  was  as  music  to  his  ears.  His  blood 
tingled  in  his  veins,  and  the  old  craving  drove  him  on. 

"All  right,"  he  agreed,  "Toss  out  the  deal;  four-bits 
goes." 

When  the  ante  was  small,  Dick  was  a  sure  winer,  but 
with  a  lifted  pot,  he  went  to  the  bad  every  turn.  Three  times 
The  Plunger  won  the  small  bet.  Then  he  forgot  himself  and 
dug  his  hand  into  his  sack.  He  dropped  a  fiver  on  the  table 
and  remarked:  "I'll  go  you  one  better,  and  lay  that  on  the 
turn." 

"Good,  good !"  cried  Dick  with  delight.  "This  is  taking 
us  out  of  the  committee  meeting.  It  looks  to  me  very  much 
like  ace,  queen,  jack.  In  grammar  it  is  queen- jack  or  jack- 
queen." 

"I  see  it  through  a  different  glass,"  The  Plunger  re 
turned,  now  fully  imbued  with  the  gambling  spirit. 

"You  see  it  right,"  said  Dick,  shoving  over  the  pile. 
"Here's  a  twenty  on  the  next. 

This  turn  Dick  lost  again,  but  remained  game.  Again 
the  cards  were  dealt.  Both  men  pulled  their  sacks.  This  is 
getting  interesting,  blamed  if  it  ain't,"  said  Dick.  "But  just 
to  show  you  how  I  stand,  I'll  set  my  wad  on  ace  heart,  ace 
club,  ace  diamond  and  ace  spade.  The  laws  of  health  would 
call  it  four  aces." 

"My  wad  don't  call  it  that  way,"  said  the  Plunger,  set 
ting  his  pouch  on  the  table. 

By  this  time  every  digger  in  the  saloon  know  of  the 
"quiet  little  game"  in  the  corner,  and  all  were  gathered 
around  the  table. 

For  a  little  while  there  was  silence,  then  The  Plunger 
said,  so  low  Dick  could  hardly  hear  him :  "I  call  you." 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  63 

Dick  turned  his  cards.  He  held  aces !  The  crowd  lost 
its  breath,  but  no  word  was  spoken,  for  the  end  was  not  yet. 
But  four  aces !  Say,  that's  a  mighty  hard  hand  to  beat. 

The  silence  grew  more  intense  while  The  Plunger  turned 
his  cards.  He  held  a  straight  flush !  The  crowd  hammered 
its  boots  on  the  floor.  Digger  slapped  digger  with  slouched 
hats  and  labor-hardened  palms.  Yell  after  yell  went  up,  till 
the  Dewdrop  threatened  to  lose  its  roof. 

Dick's  chin  dropped,  and  his  face  turned  pale.  He 
pushed  his  cards,  the  chips  and  the  money  across  the  table, 
shoved  back  his  chair,  and  abruptly  left  the  saloon,  amid  the 
laughing  jeers  of  the  crowd. 

It  was  yet  early,  and  the  Plunger  went  first  to  the  bunk- 
house  to  spruce  up  a  bit,  before  making  a  short  call  on  Miss 
Lucy.  He  would  give  the  money  to  her,  he  decided.  He  had 
won  it  fair,  but  he  would  not  keep  it. 

Just  as  he  left  the  bunkhouse,  and  started  across  the 
camp  toward  the  cabin,  he  met  Lucy.  The  dim  light  through 
the  bunkhouse  window  fell  upon  her  face  and  revealed  eyes 
that  had  been  weeping. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  The  Plunger,  "don't  cry,  Miss  Lucy. 
Dick  did  gamble,  but  it  was  I  who  won  his  money.  I  had  no 
intention  of  keeping  it.  Here  it  is." 

She  lifted  her  hand  in  refusal.  "It  isn't  that,"  she 
cried;  "no,  no,  it  isn't  that.  I  was  out  when  he  returned 
home.  I  came  to  the  cabin,  opened  the  door,  and  there"- 

She  said  no  more,  The  Plunger  understodd.  He  leaped 
before  her  and  ran  madly  across  the  camp  to  the  cabin.  He 
threw  wide  the  door,  and  there — 

The  darkness  was  to  dense,  but  a  lighted  candle  revealed 
it  all — the  lifeless  body,  the  smoking  revolver,  the  wound  in 
the  temple. 

Miss  Lucy  came  in  a  little  later  and  found  The  Plunger 
wailing  over  her  brother's  body. 

"Dick!  Dick!"  the  gambler  cried.  "Poor  Dick,  what 
have  you  done  !  God  have  mercy  on  me ;  it  was  my  fault !" 

The  Plunger  arose  and  took  the  weeping  girl's  hand. 
"This  is  my  crime,  Miss  Lucy,"  he  confessed.  "I  led  him 
into  it,  and  won  his  money.  I  broke  the  promise  I  made  you. 


64 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 


Here,  over  poor  Dick's  body,  I  swear  I  shall  never  do  it  again. 
I  will  keep  my  word." 

He  gripped  her  slender  fingers  in  a  grasp  like  that  of 
steel.  There  was  naught  to  give  witness  save  the  sputtering 
candle  on  the  wall,  but  the  vow  remained  unbroken — The 
Plunger  kept  his  word. 

Nearly  six  months  later  the  super  got  out  his  swallow 
tail  coat,  and  the  diggers  built  a  wedding  bell  of  wood  fern 
to  hang  on  the  boarding  house  porch.  Slivers  brought  a 
preacher  in  from  Boulder,  and— 

But  that  is  another  story. 


t 

The  GOLD 
BUG  KID 

f 

—  ^—  — 

A  KID  around  a  mine  is  just  about  as  useless  as  a  hole 
in  a  doughnut/7  Simpson,  the  foreman,  declared, 
when  he  learned  that  Hudson  had  signed  The  Kid 
as  a  sort  of  general  roustabout  for  the  night  shift. 

"•There  are  two  things  I  have  no  use  for,"  Simpson  went 
on,  pounding  his  sledge  fists  emphatically,  while  he  and  a  line 
of  the  diggers  were  in  front  of  the  Dewdrop  bar,  enjoying  the 
full  measure  of  the  pause  between  the  last  swallow  and  the 
cherry  on  the  bottom.  "One  is  women,  and  the  other  is  kids.'7 

"And  that's  me,  too,"  echoed  Jackson,  the  night  pump 
man,  from  his  end  of  the  line. 

Nevertheless,  The  Kid  went  on  duty,  and  was  not  long 
in  proving  himself  vastly  unlike  any  boy  the  diggers  of  Gold 
Bug  had  ever  known.  He  was  a  big-boned,  broad-shouldered 
youth.  He  was  heavy,  but  not  of  the  fat  and  dumpy  sort.  His 
was  a  round  jovial  face,  with  lips  set  firm,  eyes  intensely 
black,  and  from  which  snapped  the  alertness  and  intelligence 
of  youth. 

The  Kid  was  just  a  wanderer  when  he  came  to  Gold  Bug. 
He  had  given  Slivers  his  last  dollar,  and  made  up  the  re 
mainder  of  his  fare  by  lending  a  hand  at  changing  the  horses 
at  the  stage  stations,  on  the  trip  up  from  Placer. 

He  looked  up  Hudson;  found  him  at  the  office,  and  ap 
plied  for  work.  The  super  told  him  at  once  that  a  mine  was 
no  place  for  kids.  "A  mine  is  just  a  big  hole  in  the  ground," 
slid  Hudson,  "and  it  takes  men  to  burrow  it  out." 

The  Kid  paid  no  heed  to  the  super's  objections,  but  went 
nil.  lolling  his  story.  And  it  came  so  direct  from  the  boy's 
heart  that  the  big  man  was  forced  to  give  ear. 

The  Kid  said  his  father  had  been  boss  over  on  the  Sil 
ver  Bell — his  father  never  missed  an  hour  from  his  shift — 
n6Ver  drank  while  on  duty,  and  never  bet  a  penny  over  the 


(50  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

little  green  table — held  back  a  slip  once  on  the  600,  when 
all  of  the  men  were  out — swam  the  lower  level  when  it  was 
flooded.,  reached  the  pump  and  cleared  the  mine — went  into  a 
drift  to  clean  a  "missed  hole,"  caught  the  powder,  and  was 
buried  under  five  tons  of  rock  and  shale — they  brought  "him 
out  in  a  hand  bucket,  and  buried  him  under  the  white  oak 
up  the  gulch  from  the  mill — couldn't  remember  his  mother, 
she  died  down  at  Boulder,  wrhen  The  Kid  was  a  baby. 

His  father's  name  ?  Oh,  The  Kid  almost  forgot.  It  was 
Jimpson — Sam  Jimpson. 

That  name  decided  the  boy's  case.  Did  Hudson  know 
Jimp  ?  Well,  I  recon  he  did.  The  two  had  fingered  flapjacks 
out  of  the  same  frying  pan  in  early  Idaho  days.  They  had 
bunked  together  while  swinging  a  jack  on  the  same  shift  at 
the  Little  Daisy,  Sarah  Jane  and  Minnie  E.  Hudson  knew 
Jimp  to  have  the  biggest  heart,  the  clearest  eye  and  the  hard 
est  muscle  of  any  man  that  ever  hit  a  trail. 

For  a  while  the  diggers  tolerated  The  Kid  much  as  they 
did  the  boarding  house  cat — because  they  had  to.  But  in 
time  the  wide  gulf  of  indifference  between  the  blue-shirted 
men  and  the  boy  grew  narrower.  They  found  in  him  a  real 
boy  of  the  mines.  He  was  neither  dull  or  "smart." 

The  house  of  learning  from  which  The  Kid  received  his 
education  was  vast  and  big.  He  had  attended  both  the  day 
and  night  sessions.  He  knew  the  difference  between  bull 
quartz  and  pay  .rock,  and  could  tell  at  a  glance  whether  a 
ledge  was  free  milling  or  base.  He  knew  more  about  foot  and 
hanging  walls,  contacts,  country  rock,  diorite  and  porphyry 
than  a  professor  of  mineralogy.  He  could  tell  by  the  roar, 
whether  the  whole  stamp  battery  was  in  action,  and  if  it 
was  not,  would  know  just  how  many  stamps  were  tied  up. 
He  knew  by  the  hum  of  the  steel  drums  in  the  hoist  room 
whether  the  cages  were  coming  up  loaded  or  empty.  He  could 
read  every  clanging  signal  of  the  big  gong  over  the  engineer's 
head,  and  knew  how  to  give  them. 

In  due  time  The  Kid  forced  himself  up  the  line  of  pro 
motion  from  mucker  to  drill  carrier,  from  drill  carrier  to 
cage  tender,  and  from  cage  tender  to  pump  man's  assistant. 

As  The  Kid  went  on  the  night  shift,  his  duty  made  him 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       67 

assistant  to  Jackson,  and  Jackson  was  the  one  man  on  the 
crew  who  failed  to  give  the  boy  due  recognition.  He  failed 
to  find  anything  useful  in  the  youth,  and  made  the  heat  of 
the  steaming  pump  station  all  the  more  unbearable  with  his 
curses  and  uncontrolable  temper. 

One  night,  when  the  big  pump  was  hammering  like  a 
battering  ram,  and  threatening  to  blow  out  a  cylinder  head, 
The  Kid  took  a  wrench  and  attempted  to  loosen  the  tension 
on  the  suction.  Jackson  was  out  at  the  time,  but  came  in 
roaring  mad,  just  in  time  to  catch  the  boy  at  work  over  the 
pump. 

"What  in  hell  are  you  doin'  r"  the  big  man  yelled, 
grabbing  The  Kid  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  hauling  him 
off.  "You'll  have  the  pump  buckin'  all  over  the  lower  level 
if  you  ain't  careful." 

To  protect  himself  the  boy  struggled  desperately.  This 
increased  Jackson's  fury,  and  in  a  fit  of  anger  he  tossed  The 
Kid  over  the  curb  into  the  black  water  of  the  sump.  The  un 
derground  reservoir  wras  full  to  the  brim,  and  more  than  20 
feet  deep.  Only  his  being  a  good  swimmer  saved  The  Kid 
from  drowning.  He  clambered  out  and  shivered  through  the 
rest  of  the  shift  in  dripping  clothes.  But  his  round  face 
never  lost  its  smile. 

His  first  two  weeks  as  pump  assistant  was  a  season  of 
unbroken  misery  to  The  Kid.  Jackson  finally  ceased  his  curs 
ing  and  cuffing,  but  still  gave  the  boy  no  heed.  He  ignored 
the  lad  completely.  When  the  boy  anticipated  the  big  man's 
wants,  and  handed  him  the  wrench  or  the  oil  can,  Jackson 
took  them  from  The  Kid  just  as  he  would  have  lifted  them 
from  a  stump,  or  from  the  shelf  of  the  wall. 

A  thing  that  added  materially  to  Jackson's  meanness 
of  temper  was  his  habit  of  imbiding  strange  mixtures  of  red 
and  straw-colored  liquids  from  long-stemmed  glasses  over 
the  Dewdrop  bar,  just  before  going  on  duty.  Sometimes 
Jackson  poured  so  much  of  this  stuff  through  his  cavernous 
maw  that  it  made  him  tangle-footed,  and  he  walked  with 
peculiar,  zig-zagged  course  across  the  pump  station  floor. 
When  he  started  for  the  tool  box  he  frequetly  came  up  with  a 
sharp  thump  against  the  wall  over  by  the  oil  barrel,  and  said 


68  THE  GOLD  RUG  STORY  BOOK. 

ill  ings  that  even  the  oil  barrel  would  not  dare  repeat. 

One  night  The  Kid  donned  his  rubber  coat,  pulled  a 
(•audio  stick  from  the  head- frame  post,  and  waited  at  the 
collar  of  the  shaft  for  Jackson.  It  was  past  time  to  go  down. 
All  tlic  night  shift  men  were  at  work  in  the  stopcs  and  drifts. 
.  The  cage  shot  up,  with  both  decks  loaded.  A  mucker 
rolled  off  the  loaded  cars,  and  rolled  on  empty  ones.  The 
cage  hrsiiatiM  a  minnle,  waiting  for  the  head  pump  man,  but 
as  ho  still  failed  in  appear,  dropped  down  the  dark  shaft,  into 
the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

Presently  Hudson,  the  super,  came  up  the  trail  from  the 
office,  and  finding  The  Kid  sitting  by  the  gate,  gathered 
material  for  the  immediate  inquiry:  "Where's  Jackson?'* 

"Don't  know,"  the  boy  replied,  but  his  answer  was  in  the 
manner  of  cine  who  does  know,  vei  who  prefers  to  hide  the 
truth. 

Hudson  pullod  his  watch.  "He's  eight  minutes  late 
now,  and  the  pump  station  is  unmanned;  this  is  a  helluva 
note.  Don't  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"I  think  I  can  guess,"  The  Kid  replied,  tardily. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Bustin'  bucks  over  the  Dewdrop  bar." 

"Then  hike  down  and  yank  'im  out.  Bring  'im  up,  if  ho 
isn't  too  drunk.  Take  the  wrench  to  'im  if  you  need  to.  The 
pump  station  must  be  manned  at  once." 

The  Kid  darted  down  the  trail  to  comply.  He  hesitated 
a  moment  when  near  the  door,  fearful  of  results.  He  knew 
that  the  pump  man  would  be  in  ugly  mood;  would  possibly 
refuse  to  return  with  him,  or  eve  to  take  any  notice  of  him. 
The  boy  was  almost  on  the  point  of  returning  to  the  mine 
without  trying  to  bring  Jackson  out,  when  the  meaning  of 
Hudson's  command  came  to  him  in  its  full  force.  "Yes, 
Hudson  said  I  must  get  him,  and  I  will,"  the  boy  declared. 

The  Kid  pushed  open  the  swinging  door  and  entered  the 
saloon.  The  Dewdrop  swarmed  with  flannel-shirted,  heavy- 
booted  men.  As  the  boy  expected,  Jackson  was  emptying 
the  glasses  as  fast  as  the  barkeeper  could  fill  them,  and  had 
lined  the  crowd  up  for  the  fifth  round.  "Here's  another 
double-eagle  in  over  the  trail,"  sang  out  the  big  man  lustily, 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  "71 

slapping  a  twenty  on  the  bar.  "Take  your  hammer  to  that, 
Mr.  Bartender,  and  give  us  a  drink,  because  we  love  you  so." 

The  Kid  walked  boldly  up  and  touched  the  drinking 
man  gently  on  the  arm.  "Jackson/'  said  he,  "it's  past  time 
to  go  down.  The  station  is  unmanned.  Hudson  sent  me 
after—" 

"Git  out  of  this,  you  little  brown-topped  chipmunk," 
11  ic  pump  man  yelled,  turning  suddenly  upon  the  youth.  "Go 
bark  at  the  gray  squirrels,  I  ain't  got  time  to  crack  nuts 
with  you." 

A  boisterous  laugh  followed,  but  it  was  unheard  and  un 
heeded  by  The  Kid. 

"Hudson  wants  you,  Jackson,"  the  youth  repeated,  tak 
ing  a  firmer  hold  on  the  big  man's  arm. 

"What  does  Hud  want  with  me  ?  He  ain't  got  no  strings 
on—" 

"We're  late,  Jackson.  The  shift  went  on  fifteen  minutes 
ago.  There's  no  one  at  the  pump,  and  she  will  hammer  her 
self  to  death." 

"Let  'er  die,"  roared  Jackson,  "The  Gold  Bug  needs  a 
new  pump,  anyhow.  Git  away  from  me,  you  cub,  before  I 
blow  you  away.  He  pushed  out  his  long  arm,  and  threw  The 
Kid  across  the  bar  room. 

While  the  boy  gathered  himself  together,  and  made  ready 
for  a  second  attack,  a  mucker  ran  in,  half  gone  of  breath,  and 
yelled:  "Where's  Jackson  and  The  Kid?" 

"Eight  here,"  The  Kid  answered  prompty,  "What's  the 
trouble?" 

"Fire's  broke  out  in  the  pump  station.  She's  burning 
hotter  than  hammered  purpagtory,  and  smokin'  like  a  tar 
barrel.  All  the  men  are  out  of  the  upper  levels.  Hud  wants 
you  two  to  go  down  with  him.  If  it  ain't  put  out  at  once, 
the  whole  mine  will  burn." 

"Come  quick,  Jackson !"  The  Kid  urged,  tugging  at  the 
pump  man's  sleeve. 

Impeding  disaster  sobered  the  stalwart  miner.  The 
daze  of  whiskey  left  him  suddenly,  and  his  eyes  shone  clear  as 
steel.  "What's  that?"  he  cried,  grasping  the  full  import  of 
the  alarm.  "Fire  on  the  pump  station?  The  men  all  out?" 


73  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

He  left  an  unemptied  glass  on  the  bar,  dashed  out  the 
Dewdrop  and  up  the  trail  with  The  Kid  pattering  nimbly 
at  his  heels. 

All  the  night  shift  men  were  huddled  aroung  the  collar 
of  the  shaft,  some  with  their  candles  still  flickering  in  the 
sticks.  Some  were  hanging  up  their  coats  in  the  change  room . 
Hudson  was  charging  back  and  forth  like  a  mad  bull,  vainly 
trying  to  get  two  men  to  go  down  with  him.  Simpson  had 
gone  of  duty  for  the  day  and  knew  nothing  of  the  trouble. 

Smoke  was  pouring  from  the  shaft  in  great  black  rolls, 
sucked  up  by  the  long  draft  from  below.  It  was  evident  that 
fire  was  already  well  under  way. 

"Come  on,  two  of  you,"  Hurl  son  roared,  "I  want  two 
men  at  once." 

But  the  men  held  back.  It  was  too  much  like  courting 
death.  "What's  the  use,"  they  murmured,  "an  avalanche 
couldn't  put  out  that  fire  now." 

"It  must  be  put  out,"  Ilic  super  veiled.  "Quick,  you 
cowards !" 

The  super  seized  the  hose  coil  from  the  rack  and  threw 
it  on  the  cage  deck.  Then  he  rang  the  bell  to  down  cage.  He 
was  going  down  alone !  The  Gold  Bug  was  above  everything 
to  Hudson,  even  above  his  own  life. 

"Hold  on,"  yelled  the  Kid  from  outside  the  circle  of 
men.  The  cage  hesitated,  and  the  boy  and  Jackson  leaped 
aboard,  the  latter  staggering  from  what  remained  in  him  of 
the  liquor  daze. 

"Don't  let  that  man  go  down,  he's  drunk,"  the  crowd 
protested. 

"But  he's  no  coward,"  Hudson  yelled  back,  as  the  cage 
shot  down,  cutting  a  hole  through  the  dense  smoke. 

On  the  600  they  stopped  with  a  jerk  on  a  level  with  the 
burning  station.  The  fire  was  roaring  like  a  smelter  furnace. 
The  heat  stung  like  vitriol.  All  three  fell  flat  and  pressed 
their  faces  close  to  the  damp  floor  of  the  tunnel,  gasping  for 
breath. 

Hudson  pulled  the  hose  from  the  cage  and  dragged  the 
end  out  to  the  hydrant.  Connections  were  made,  and  the 
stream  hissed  from  the  nozzle  upon  the  flames.  The  fire  ate 


THE.  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  75 

greedily  of  the  oil-soaked  floor,  and  the  long  shaft  gave  the 
draft  of  a  tall  chimney. 

The  three  took  turns  holding  the  nozzle  to  the  flames, 
singing  their  hair  and^eyebrows  by  the  scorching  heat.  Des 
pite  thei  rheroic  work,  the  fire  grew. 

Jackson  was  completely  sober  now.  When  his  turn  came 
for  a  hand  at  the  nozzle  he  would  remain  overtime,  and  force 
Hudson  to  pull  him  away  by  the  heels.  Once  his  slouched 
hat,  pulled  over  his  face,  caught  fire.  He  slapped  it  out  and 
put  it  on  again.  A  second  time  it  blazed,  and  he  threw  it 
to  the  flames,  letting  his  hair  singe. 

Still  the  fire  grew.  It  ate  its  way  across  the  floor,  and  a 
hundred  tongues  of  flame  were  twisting  fantastically  around 
the  pump.  But  the  big  machine,  unconscious  of  impending 
<lisaster,  continued  its  "chug!  chug!  chug!'' 

"There's  just  one  way  to  put  'er  but/'  Jackson  yelled. 
Some  one  must  crawl  through  and  release  the  water  of  the 
upper  tank." 

"Crawl  through,  the  devil !"  Hudson  returned.  "It 
would  be  wadin'  through  fire  up  to  your  eyes." 

But  the  supers  protestations  were  not  heard  by  the 
pump  man.  He  dropped  flatter  and  crept  into  the  station 
<loor,  now  a  veritable  furnace  of  fire.  The  walls  were  of  sheet 
steel,  and  between  these  and  the  rock  wall  of  the  underground 
cavern  was  a  narrow  space.  Though  the  steel  wall  was  red 
with  heat,  Jackson  crawled  into  the  crevice  and  started  across. 
He  turned  once  to  look  back,  fooling  something  touch  his 
heels.  It  was  The  Kid. 

"Run  back,  you  cub !"  he  cried.  But  The  Kid  paid  no 
heed. 

They  reached  the  opposite  side  with  their  faces  blistered, 
their  hair  gone  and  their  jumpers  aflame.  They  climbed 
aloft  hastily  to  the  upper  tank,  and  leaped  into  the  cool  water 
of  the  sump.  Then  Jackson  pulled  the  lower  plug.  With 
wild  hisses  the  water  poured  down  the  sides  and  through  the 
ceiling  of  the  buring  station. 

For  a  little  while  the  steel  walls  of  the  station  sputtered 
like  a  monster  frying  pan.  With  long  drawn  shrieks  of  des 
pair,  the  fire  demon  left  the  timbers,  and  burned  wood  fell 


;<i  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

in  (.-hunks  from  the  roof.  Before  the  upper  tank  was  empty. 
the  lire  was  well  extinguished,  and  the  station  was  filled  with 
>< -aiding  steam. 

Then  the  pent-up  energy  of  disaster  was  exhausted,  and 
Jackson's  eye  lost  its  clearness.  He  reeled  across  the  station, 
and  would  have  lei!  headlong  into  the  lower  sump,  from 
around  which  the  railings  were  now  burned,  had  the  kid  not 
caught  and  swung  his  huge  body  safely  to  the  floor.  At  the 
same  moment  a  charred  and  burned-put  limber  dropped  from 
the  roof  and  struck  The  Kid  on  the  head,  laying  him  low  and 
pinning  him  to  the  edge  of  1he  sump. 

One  again  Jackson's  eye  and  brain  were  clear,  and  his 
old  strength  returned.  He  found  the  lad  unconscious  at  his 
fed.  and  he  understood.  He  stooped  and  gathered  up  the  boy 
as  lighily  as  lie  would  have  picked  up  a  babe. 

"\V;ike  up.  Kid.  wake  up!"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

Hudson  ventured  in  a  little  later,  and  found  Jackson 
dueking  the  hoy  in  the  could  water  of  the  sump.  "He's  just 
about  gone."  the  pump  man  declared.  "''He  caught  a  timber 
big  enough  to  have  knocked  out  an  ox — a  timber  that  would 
have  killed  me,  had  it  not  been  for  him. 

"Let's  get  'im  up  and  out  of  here,"  said  the  super. 

They  took  The  Kid  between  them  and  tottered  across 
the  smoking  wreckage. .  Blackened  and  burned,  with  their 
clothes  hanging  to  them '  in  scorched  shreds,  they  looked 
strangely  inhuman  when  they  gained  the  cage  and  pulled  the 
bell  wire.  In  the  burned  station  the  monster  pump  ham 
mered  away  unceasingly,  "chug!  chug!  chug!"  sweet  music 
to  the  super's  ear. 

In  a  moment  they  were  up  on  the  surface,  up  into  the 
air — the  cool  night  air,  that  soaked  their  parched  lungs  like 
nectar. 

Willing  and  ready  hands  took  the  unconscious  boy  to 
the  bunk  house,  and  the  camp  doctor  was  soon  patching  his 
wouds,  while  an  anxious  crowd  waited  breathlessly  for  the 
verdict.  "He  is  all  right,"  the  doctor  declared.  Has  a  pretty 
bad  scratch  on  the  head,  and  has  a  lot  of  new  hair  to  grow, 
but  he  will  come  out  all  right." 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STOUT  BOOK.  : : 

And  beneath  every  Jlannci  shirt  a  warm  heart  beat  exnli- 
antly,  when  the  verdict  was  rendered. 

Jackson  came  down  from  the  mine,  just  as  The  Kid 
i)|)i-iH'(l  his  eyes.  He  offered  a  blistered  hand  to  the  boy,  and 
the  boy  took  it  eagerly.  "I  wish  I  had  your  pluck,"  said  the 
man.  "I  didn't  know  till  just  now  that  you  were  Sam  Jimp- 
son's  boy — Hud  told  me  while  we  were  in  the  change  room. 
I  could  have  guessed  it,  though,  while  you  were  fighting  fire 
down  in  the  station.  You're  a  real  chip  off  the  original 
chunk,  and  I  want  to  bo  your  partner.  Forgive  me,  any 
how,  lad,  what  I  luivi1  said  and  done.  I  thought  you  were 
only,  an  ordinary  boy  when  I  spoke." 

"'You  were  drunk,"  said  The  Kid,  through  his  bandages, 
and  with  a  genuine  feeling  of  pit}'. 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  the  stalwart  man  replied.  "It's 
n iy  weakness,  lad.  We've  all  got  'cm,  of  one  kind  or  other. 
But  no  more  booz;>  for  me  at  shiftchanging  time.  1'm'on  the 
water  wagon,  when  it  comes  to  gettin'  drunk,  and  I  beg  that 
YOU  forgive  me." 

"Of  course  I  will,  if  there  is  anything  to  forgive,"  said 
The  Kid,  lifting  his  hand  to  Jackson's  face,  and  something 
that  glittered  and  was  warm  with  a  big  man's  devotion  and 
sincerity,  fell  from  Jackson's  face  upon  the  Kid's  cheek. 


<%! 


AN  ILL  WIND 


CHUCK  was  over;  the  night  shift  had  gone  down,  and 
the  day  men  were  assembled  in  the  bunk  house  "par 
lor."  The  mill  was  thundering  like  a  hundred  hoofs 
on  a  stable  floor,  and  the  hoist  engines  puffed,  wheezed  and 
snorted  as  they  drew  the  loaded  cages  up  the  shaft.  Night 
had  dropped  her  black  mantle  over  the  mountains,  and  tucked 
the  corners  in  close  and  snug  around  Gold  Bug.  Stars 
blinked  down  through  the  pines,  and  the  handle  of  the  Big 
Dipper  stuck  in  the  shoulder  of  Old  Baldy. 

In  the  bunk  house  "parlor"  the  diggers  lounged,  smoked 
and  gabbed.  A  bright  fire  crackled  from  the  big  box  stove, 
and  a  dozen  candles,  stuck  in  miners'  sticks,  on  the  walk,  or 
anchored  by  their  own  grease  to  the  table,  lighted  the  whis 
kered  faces  of  the  men.  Tony  Bill,  Eucher  Buck  and  John 
nie  Campbell  were  quarreling  over  a  game  of  draw  poker. 
Two  decks  had  got  mixed  during  the  day,  and  the  final  round 
up  located  six  jacks,  five  aces  and  only  two  kings  in  the  stack. 
Tony  held  three  of  the  aces,  and  made  a  hard  fight  for  the 
pot,  which  at  two  bits  a  corner  would  add  materially  to  two- 
twenty-five  as  a  day's  pay  for  mucking.  Hank  Tyson  was 
writing  a  letter  that  he  was  very  careful  none  could  read  by  a 
sly  glance  over  his  shoulder.  Slivers  was  studiously  conning 
a  horse  book  that  he  had  lately  become  in  possession  of,  and 
the  rest  of  the  crowd  filled  the  corner  near  the  door,  where 
the  Spanish  Fly  and  the  Old-Timer  were  telling  tales  of  gold. 

By  his  own  testimony  the  Spanish  Fly  had  been  a  mil 
lionaire  three  times,  and  had  mined  all  the  way  from  the 
Arctic  circle  to  the  equator.  He  prospected  Alaska  when  the 
Indians  up  there  were  using  nuggets  for  fishline  sinkers,  and 
was  in  South  Africa  when  diamonds  were  still  used  by  the 
natives  to  gravel  the  floors  of  their  huts. 


so  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

The  Spanish  Fly  concluded  his  version  of  the  Golconda 
diamond  discovery,  and  the  diggers  turned  instinctively  to 
ihe  Old-Timer,  who  was  filling  his  corncob  for  the  third  time 
and  poking  a  splinter  through  a  crack  in  the  stove  to  get  a 
fight 

"I  never  was  mixed  up  in  any  diamond  discovery,  never 
have  traveled  except  to  hike  the  trail  across  Uncle  Sam's 
territory,"  confessed  the  Old-Timer,  "but  I  did  meet  with 
an  experience  out  in  Californy  durin'  the  early  days,  that 
was  most  peculiar.  Me  and  my  pardner,  Jimmy  Ladd,  had 
been  booting  the  trail  for  nigh  on  two  months,  and  we  hadn't 
found  colors  enough  to  paint  a  flea.  It  was  summer  time,  an' 
h otter  than  hammered  purgatory.  Our  beans  and  bacon 
were  gittin'  mightly  low,  an'  there  was  just  about  flour 
enough  for  two  more  good  rounds  o'  flapjacks.  We  knew  that 
strike  or  no  strike,  we'd  have  to  get  out  o'  there  purdy  soon. 
Accordin'  to  Jimmy's  most  careful  calculations  we  were 
twenty  miles  off  the  Funeral  mountains,  an'  two  hundred 
miles  from  a  keg  o'  beer,  by  the  shortest  route. 

One  afternoon  we  struck  camp  in  a  long,  straight  and 
deep  canyon,  unpacked  the  ponies,  and  while  I  hobbled  the 
cayuses,  Jimmy  fried  the  bacon,  made  coffee  and  fought  the 
smoke  with  his  hat,  the  while  sayin'  most  unpretty  thing? 
about  the  wood  I  had  dragged  up  for  the  fire. 

"When  we  were  eatin'  supper,  and  just  as  Jimmy  reached 
over  the  fire  to  fork  his  third  flapjack  from  the  sputtering 
frying  pan,  we  both  sat  up  straight  and  took  notice  of  the 
same  peculiar  condition.  It  struck  us  both  all  of  a  sudden, 
like  a  boy  gettin'  butted  by  a  billy-goat,  that  there  was  some- 
thin'  unnatural  about  that  canyon.  We  gabbed  about  it  a 
little  while  and  finally  figured  it  out.  We  discovered  that 
the  wind  was  blowm'  down  the  canyon  just  as  steady  as  a 
gust  from  a  blacksmith's  bellows.  There  was  nothin'  jerky 
or  irregular  about  it.  It  was  as  smooth  as  a  summer  zephyr, 
yet  considerable  stronger.  And  what  was  more,  that  wind 
was  greasy !  Color  my  whiskers  red  if  it  wasn't  a  fact.  It 
had  the  most  unnatural,  greasy  taste  you  ever  put  a  tongue 
to.  Jimmy  and  I  thought  but  little  of  it  then,  however,  but 
finished  our  supper  and  rolled  in  early,  for  we  had  covered 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  S3 

forty  miles  that  day  and  were  tired  enough  to  have  slept  on 
a  stack  of  needles. 

"Next  mornin7  when  we  awoke  the  sun  had  arisen  and 
was  shinin'  the  long  way  of  the  canyon.  Nothin'  remarkable 
about  the  sim  doin'  that,  except  that  it  made  somethin'  glit 
ter  and  glisten  in  the  wrool  of  the  blankets,  an'  in  the  hair 
of  the  bosses.  It  was  fine,  powdery  stuff,  and  the  blankets 
of  the  cayuses  were  thickly  dusted  with  it.  Jimmy  and  me 
thought  it  was  passin'  strange  that  the  dust  should  have 
settled  on  us  that  way  .during  the  night,  and  the  wind  hadn't 
blown  very  hard. 

"We  brushed  some  of  it  out,  and  Jimmy  examined  it 
critically  from  the  bottom  of  his  palm.  He  gave  a  yell  that 
awoke  all  the  spooks  on  the  funeral  range.  Color  my  whis 
kers  red  if  that  dust  wasn't  gold !  It  was  the  pure  metal ; 
the  genuine  quill. 

"What  caused  it,  did  you  ask?  Why,  the  wind — that 
dad-burned  greasy  wind.  It  was  full  of  gold  dust  blowin' 
down  that  canyon  from  somewhere;  and  the  funny  thing  of 
it  was  that  it  only  settled  on  wool  or  hair,  such  as  our  blan 
kets,  the  ponies  and  our  own  shag  tops.  We  combed  three 
ounces  out  of  the  cayuses,  four  from  the  blankets,  and  an 
ounce  out  of  each  of  our  heads." 

"Did  you  get  any  more  of  it  while  you  were  there?" 
asked  Colorado  Ned. 

"No,"  the  Old-Timer  continued.  "Jimmy  and  me 
camped  in  that  canyon  till  we  had  only  six  beans  left,  and 
spread  our  blankets  separately  over  the  ground  every  night, 
so  as  to  offer  as  much  resistance  as  possible,  and  waited  for 
that  greasy  wind  to  blow  again,  but  I'll  be  gad-switched  if  it 
ever  breathed  another  zephyr,  an'  we  had  to  hike." 

As  usual,  the  Old-Timer  held  high  cards,  and  the 
Spanish  Fly  had  nothing  more  to  say.  It  was  time  to  "douse 
tbe  glim — smother  the  flicker." 


? 
t 
t 

1                                  1 

? 

t 
t 

THE 

"DARE  DEVIL" 

I                       -                   I 

LIVERS  popped  his  long  whip  over  the  leaders,  and 
the  stage  was  lifted  up  the  steep  bank  out  of  Roaring 
Creek  ford.  Another  crack  of  the  whip,  and  the 
four  horses  hounded  into  a  trot.  The  coach  careened  and 
rolled  and  tossed,  bouncing  from  one  rut  to  another,  from 
OIK-  stene  in  another,  lure-limp:  drunkenly  from  side  to  side  of 
the  road. 

The  alkali  dust  followed  in  thick  rolls,  pouring  through 
tbe  open  flaps  of  the  coach,  sifting  down  the  sides,  piling  on 
I  he  seats,  and  powdering  the  hair,  eyebrows  and  clothing  of 
the  two  passengers. 

With  his  slouched  hat  dropped  down  over  his  face,  his 
dust  coat  battened  high.,  and  one  foot  lightly  on  the  brake, 
Slivers  kept  the  horses  at  a  brisk  trot,  following  the  winding 
road  up  Anna  Creek  gulch.  After  an  hour,  "the  mountains 
that  had  spread  distantly  in  purple  slopes,  closed  in,  reveal 
ing  a  detail  of  bron/ed  boulders,  straggling  pines  and  scarred 
juniper. 

The  two  men  in  the  coach  had  long  since  ceased  to  talk, 
and  were  occupied  solely  at  accommodating  themselves  to 
the  pitching  and  swaying  of  the  stage.  Both  were  half 
asleep,  which  is  as  nearly  asleep  as  anyone  can  get  on  board 
a  tossing  Concord. 

Suddenly  the  stage  -topped.  Slivers  was  heard  to  mut 
ter  an  oath,  as  he  -firmly  set  the  brake.  Instinctively,  the 
younger  of  the  two  passengers  aroused  and  quickly  kicked  the 
grip  that  he  had  held  between  his  feet,  back  under  the  seat. 

A  man  behind  a  hlaek  mask,  fringed  with  a  mass  of  un 
kempt  red  hair,  poked  a  long-barreled  revolver  through  the 
door  and  remarked  : 

"Sorrv  that    f  must  trouble  you,  but  must  insist  that  you 


86  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

hand  over  such  trifles  as  purses,  watches,  rings  and  loose  cash. 
To  expedite  matters,  the  big  man  in  the  corner  had  best  come 
out." 

"But  I  am  unarmed,"  the  man  in  the  corner  assured. 
"I'm  only  a  traveling  man — camp  store  supplies — bacon, 
beans,  condensed  milk — 

"Come  out  !"  commanded  the  robber,  gruffly.  The 
drummer  lifted  his  bulky  avordupois  from  the  corner,  and 
dropped  out  with  a  thump. 

"Stand  over  there  and  hold  up  your  hands,"  further 
commanded  the  highwayman,  after  he  had  relieved  the  sales 
man  of  his  watch  and  purse.  He  then  returned  to  the  stage 
door,  and  resumed  operations  on  the  young  fellow  inside.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  but  you  have  overlooked  your  watch." 

Without  protest,  the  young  fellow  removed  the  timepiece 
from  his  fob  and  passed  it  over. 

"Many  thanks,"  said  the  voice  behind  the  mask,  in  a 
tone  that  was  feigned  to  coarseness.  "I  hate  to  trouble  you 
further,  but  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  there  is  a  satchel  in  here 
that  ought  to  go  with  the  rest  of  this  stuff." 

He  fumbled  under  the  seat,  but  in  the  confused  pile  of 
blankets,  robes  and  halters,  failed  to  locate  the  object  of  his 
search. 

The  young  fellow  noticed,  while  the  robber  was  stooped, 
that  the  red  wig  neglected  to  conceal  all  of  the  black  hair 
beneath. 

The  robber  carried  his  search  to  the  other  side.  Among 
other  things  discovered  was  a  case  of  muriatic  acid  on  its 
way  to  the  Gold  Bug  assay  office.  It  looked  like  choice  soda 
or  mineral  water,  and  the  highwayman  grinningly  jerked  a 
bottle  from  the  case.  The  glass  stopper  was  broken  off,  and 
the  fuming  liquid  boiled  instantly  across  the  robber's  hand. 
He  dropped  the  bottle  with  an  oath,  and  stepping  back  from 
the  door,  turned  toward  a  horse  that  stood  in  the  shade  of  a 
boulder  near  the  road. 

He  thrust  the  revolver  into  its  holster,  that  he  might 
nurse  his  burned  hand.  The  young  fellow  saw  his  oppor 
tunity,  and  leaped  out  the  opposite  side  of  the  stage,  climbed 
to  the  box,  and  grabbed  the  Winchester  that  idly  rested  by 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  87 

Slivers'  feet.  When  he  jumped  down,  his  toe  caught  on  the 
wheel,  and  he  fell  headlong  across  the  road,  his  one  shot 
going  wild.  The  robber  vaulted  into  the  saddle  and  dashed 
up  the  bank,  his  horse  madly  threshing  the  chaparral. 

"It  was  Eed  Head  again/'  Slivers  informed,  kicking  at 
the  brake  lever  with  his  boot.  "This  is  the  third  time  he's 
stopped  me  the  past  two  months." 

"Why  don't  you  use  your  gun  on  him  ?"  asked  the  young 
fellow,  as  he  replaced  the  weapon  in  the  box. 

"I  place  a  value  on  my  health,"  Slivers  returned.  "I'm 
not  ready  for  the  boneyard  yet,  and  as  Red  Head  never  asks 
for  the  mail  pouches,  I  leave  'im  alone." 

"You  missed  your  chance  with  him  today,"  the  young- 
fellow  continued.  "You  could  have  made  a  collander  of  him 
while  he  was  busy  with  us.  I  wouldn't  have  let  him — 

"Looky  here,  sonny,"  Slivers  retorted.  "I  drove  stage 
before  you  could  crawl.  Mebbe  there's  somethin'  about  it 
you  can  tell  me.  If  my  style  don't  suit  you,  just  register 
your  kick  with  the  road  director.  Get-ap,  Tommy!  Get  out 
of  this;  we  can't  stand  here  chewin'  the  rag  all  day." 

The  long  whip  popped  again,  and  the  two  passengers 
scrambled  into  the  coach,  which  went  rattling  and  bouncing 
up  the  road  in  a  cloud  of  sifting  alkali.  Nothing  more  was 
said,  though  once  Slivers  poked  his  head  down  to  yell  below : 
"You're  a  dare  devil,  young  feller."  This  evidently  relieved 
the  driver's  mind,  for  he  straightened  up,  shouted  at  the 
horses,  and  on  the  next  five  miles  of  road,  hit  a  pace  that 
fully  made  up  for  time  lost  by  the  hold-up.  To  Slivers  the 
robbery  was  but  an  incident  in  an  otherwise  dull  routine,  and 
was  soon  forgotten. 

After  a  long  swing  around  Baldy,  the  stage  dropped  into 
a  vale,  filled  with  a  jumbled  litter  of  miners'  cabins — half 
canvas,  half  boards— an  unpainted  bunk  and  boarding  house, 
box  buildings  and  shops.  Over  all  loomed  the  big  mill  and 
the  head-frame.  The  narrow  valley  echoed  and  reverberated 
with  the  incessant  thunder  of  the  stamp  battery. 

The  stage  drew  up  at  the  camp  store,  and  the  passen 
gers  got  out,  the  salesman  entering  the-  store  to  greet  the 
keeper.  The  young  fellow  gathered  up  his  grips  and  looked 


88  .     THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

around  him  a  little  bewildered.  He  was  approached  by  Hud 
son,  superintendent  of  the  Gold  Bug. 

"I  take  you  to  be  Harry  Fields,  son  of  the  general  mana 
ger,  who  has — 

"He's  a  little  dare  devil/'  broke  in  Slivers,  from  the 
box.  "He  tried  to  wing  Eed  Head  on  the  way  up." 

"Fields  is  my  name/'  said  the  yourig  fellow,  giving 
Slivers'  remark  no  heed.  "Here's  the  month's  pay,"  he 
added,  handing  over  the  satchel.  "The  old  gent  couldn't 
come  this  trip,  so  he  sent  it  up  by  me.  I  brought  it  in  coin, 
and  came  near  losing  it,  as  I  had  no  gun  to  stand  off  Red 
Head,  or  whoever  it  was  that  held  us  up  this  afternoon."  - 

"Well,  you  are  a  dare  devil,  sure  'nough !"  the  super  de- 
flared,  when  he  took  the  weighty  satchel  and  eyed  the  diminu- 
tive  youth.  "Your  father  wrote  me  you  were  coming  out  to 
wear  off  the  sharp  corners.  You  won't  be  long  getting  rid 
of  'em  at  this  rate." 

Though  he  was  the  son  of  the  general  manager,  the 
"'dare  devil"  took  a  bunk  with  the  men,  and  shed  his  finer 
I'M  iment  for  an  appropriate  suit  of  brown  khaki.  By  night 
he  had  covered  pretty  much  all  of  the  mine,  from  the  lower 
level  pump  station  to  the  hoist  lookout.  He  filed  in  that 
evening,  and  ate  beans  and  boiled  beef  with  the  crew,  ignor 
ing  the  special  table  that  the  Old  Woman  thoughtfully  set 
for  him. 

After  supper  he  wandered  over  to  the  camp  store,  and 
while  buying  a  pair  of  hoghide  gloves,  came  face  to  face  with 
Katy  Worden,  daughter  of  the  keeper.  She  was  chatting 
with  Buck  Tyson  when  Fields  came  in,  something  she  could 
always  be  found  doing  when  Buck  was  off  duty.  Rumor  had 
it  that  the  black-eyed  daughter  of  the  keeper  was  engaged 
to  Buck,  and  the  knowledge  of  this  around  camp  kept  all 
others  at  a  cousinly  distance. 

Fields  would  not  have  interrupted  them,  but  the  keeper 
\\MS  out,  and  the  hoghide  gloves  were  badl}r  wanted.  Per 
haps  it  was  a  desire  to  get  the  best  pair  in  stock,  perhaps  it 
was  the  girl's  eyes,  anyway,  the  "dare  devil"  lingered  long 
over  the  counter  till  Buck  grew  tired  of  waiting,  and  rest 
lessly  paced  the  floor.  When  the  young  fellow  finally  closed 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  91 

the  bargain,  he  handed  over  two  silver  dollars  and  told  the 
girl  to  keep  the  change,  mischievously  returning  the  smile 
she  threw  at  him. 

When  he  turned  from  the  counter,  Buck  stood  nearby, 
scowling  wickedly.  It  struck  Fields  instantly  that  there  was 
something  strikingly  familiar  in  Buck's  face.  He  struggled 
momentarily  to  recall  when  and  where  he  had  seen  him  be 
fore,  and  could  soon  have  remembered  had  his  eye  not  passed 
up  and  down  Buck's  huge  form  and  found  that  the  miner 
carried  a  newly  bandaged  hand.  The  discovery  changed  the 
course  of  his  thoughts  altogether.  As  he  held  his  gaze  upon 
it  uncomfortably  long,  Tyson  put  the  injured  hand  in  the 
pocket  of  his  coat. 

Outside  the  store  Fields  remembered  that  this  Buck 
Tyson  was  a  duplicate  of  the  Mike  Stickney  of  his  college 
days — the  big  bully  who  was  known  around  the  "dorm"  as 
"Stick,"  and  whose  underhand  wickedness  led  to  his  expul 
sion  from  school,  not  so  much  upon  the  order  of  the  faculty, 
as  upon  the  urgent  request  of  the  students. 

So,  when  the  two  met  later  on  the  trail  near  the  Dew- 
drop,  Fields  held  out  his  hand  and  greeted:  "Shake  Stick, 
I  didn't  recognize  you  at  first  sight  down  at  the  store." 

"I'll  shake,"  returned  Buck,  bluntly,  extending  his  un 
injured  hand,  which  happened  to  be  his  left,  "but  I  guess 
you're  calling  up  the  wrong  number." 

"I  thought  you  were  Stick — Mike  Stickney,"  ventured 
the  "dare  devil." 

"My  name's  Tyson,  Buck  Tyson,"  the  big  miner  assured. 

"Then  I  guess  I'm  wrong.  Well,  no  harm  done,  any 
how.  Glad  to  know  you.  What's  the  matter  with  your  hand 
—looks  like  a  burn — or  is  it  a  bruise — caught  it  under  a  jack, 
I  suppose." 

"Nope,  I've  been  oft'  for  two  days.  Rode  a  frisky  horse 
in  from  Placer  today,  and  got  the  top  of  my  hand  bit  off 
tryin'  to  bridle  'im." 

Just  then  a  coyote's  yapping  cry  chimed  down  from  the 
slopes  of  Baldy.  "Hear  that?"  said  Fields.  "Don't  that 
sound  natural?  Don't  that  sound  mightily  like  the  ki-yi  of 
the  Sewer  Gang?" 


!>•>  777 K  GOLD  BUG  ,S7'0 /,').'  JWOK. 

"1  don't  kno\v  what  you're  talkin'  about,7'  declared  Buck, 
igimrantly.  "It's  just  a  plain  coyote  yelp  to  me/" 

Later  on  ihai  evening,  as  Fields  came  down  the  trail 
from  the  >hal't  Ixaise,  a  bullet  nipped  the  edge  of  his  hat 
brim.  It  came  from  the  direction  of  the  Dewdrop.  The 
"dare  devil'7  believed  it  to  be  a  stray  missile  from  the  bar  or 
the  card  room,  where  it  had  undoubtedly  served  as  an  argu 
ment  to  settle  a  dispute. 

The  next  night  another  bullet  passed  his  way  and  made 
a  neat  rip  in  his  coat  sleeve.  This  time  it  came  from  the 
shadow  of  the  cyanide  plant,  and  was  evidently  fired  by 
some  one  standing  under  the  dripping  sump  tanks.  He  went 
on  down  to  the  bunk  house,  entering  the  front  door  just  as 
I»uek  Tyson  came  in  from  the  side.  The  "dare  devil's"  eyes 
were  open,  and  saw  that  Buck's  boots  were  covered  with  the 
Mm1  slime  of  tin1  cyanide  sands'. 

The  following  day  Fields  invested  a  greenback  in  one 
of  i he  best  revolvers  Peto  Worden  had  in  stock.  Buck  was 
surprised  that  night  by  having  the  weapon  poked  in  his  face, 
when  lie  came  into  the  full  light  of  the  Dewdrop  window. 
Pie  was  more  greatly  surprised  to  see  the  "dare  devil"  stand 
ing  behind  the  gun. 

"This  is  no  hold-up/7  informed  Fields.  "I  wanted  you 
to  know  that  I  am  on,  that's  all.  If  you've  got  a  crow  to 
pick  with  me,  bring  it  out  in  the  open,  and  we'll  pull  feathers 
in  daylight." 

"You  insinuated  that  I  was  Mike — 

"I  don't  care  who  you  are.  But  I  object  to  being  shot 
at  in  the  dark,  and  from  behind .  What  does  it  matter  if  you 
are  Stick?" 

"I  don't  want— 

"You  don't  want  her  to  know  it?  Well,  I'm  not  going 
to  sijueal.  I'll  promise  you  that." 

"Then  I'll  be  good.     Shake !" 

Fields  lowered  his  gun,  and  took  Tyson's  hand.  They 
parted,  feeling  better. 

The  incident  was  only  temporarily  closed.  Two  weeks 
later  there  was  a  dance  over  at  the  Silver  Bell.  All  the  Gold 
Bug  diggers,  able  to  get  leave,  the  "dare  devil"  among  them. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  93 

climbed  into  a  freight  wagon,  and  with  Slivers  as  driver, 
went  over  to  the  neighboring  camp.  Buck  Tyson  and  Katy 
drove  over  in  the  roustabout's  buckboard. 

The  Silver  Bell's  boarding  house  was  abla/c  with  light, 
the  bright  beams  shooting  the  darkness  from  the  open  doors 
and  windows  like  fire  through  the  cracks  of  a  big  box  stove. 
\Vhcn  a  half  mile  away,  the  Gold  Bug  visitors  heard  the  mer- 
riment  and  clatter  of  revelry,  which  the  thundering  battery 
ol:  the  mill  could  not  drown.  When  they  reached  the  border 
of  the  camp,  they  caught  the  sound  of  tramping  boots  and 
ladies  slippers,  keeping  time  to  the  music  of  Peg  Leg  Jim, 
ilu.1  fiddler,  who,  mounted  on  a  table  in  one  corner  was  doing 
the  double  turn  of  sawing  a  violin  and  calling  a  quadrille. 

"The  first  two  gents  cross  over/'  Peg  Leg  called,  in  tune 
to  "Jump-Jim-Crow."  "Honors  to  the  right,  honors  to  the 
left,  swing  that  pretty  ladee-ee,  and  all  promenade/' 

The  Gold  Bug  diggers  piled  out  of  the  wagon  and  en 
tered  the  boarding  house  just  as  a  husky  miner,  evidently  a 
lower  level  mucker,  whose  feet  were  painfully  encased  in  a 
pair  of  dancing  pumps,  and  who  wore  a  red  sash  to  indicate 
his  official  position  as  chairman  of  the  "floor  committee," 
lustily  announced  that  the  next  number  would  be  a  quadrille. 

There  was  instantly  a  wild  scurry  across  the  floor  to 
make  engagements.  Considerable  embarrassment  was  ex 
perienced  because  of  the  extreme  scarcity  of  calico — there 
was  only  half  enough  ladies  to  go  'round.  Katy  was  the 
only  one  from  Gold  Bug.  The  Old  Woman  of  the  boarding 
house  would  gladly  have  come,  but,  someway  none  volun 
teered,  to  bring  her. 

Her  being  the  prettiest,  as  well  as  the  best  dancer,  made 
many  demands  upon  Katy.  That  it  might  be  known  just 
how  he  "stood"  with  the  black-e}red  beauty  from  Gold  Bug, 
Buck  Tyson  claimed  every  other  dance  with  her.  This  was 
unfair,  and  the  "dare  devil,"  prompted  principally  by  a  spirit 
uf  fair  play,  decided  to  take  a  hand  in  the  game. 

At  the  close  of  the  fourth  dance,  Buck  bounded  across 
to  reach  Katy  and  claim  his  regular  turn.  But  he  arrived 
just  in  time  to  hear  her  say  her  prettiest  "Yes,  Mr.  Fields, 
!  shall  be  pleased  to  assist  you  in  the  next." 


94       THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

"Assist  the  devil !"  Buck  hissed  through  his  teeth,  as 
he  turned  on  his  heel.  "Assist!  That's  a "  blamed  pretty 
way  to  put  it.  I'll  show  'im  what  we  diggers  think  of  his 
standin'  collar,  biled  shirt  and  fine  manners.  This  ain't 
college — this  is  Silver  Bell,  by  gravey,  and  I'm  Buck  Tyson." 

Buck's  mutterings  were  unheard,  but  he  was  consider 
ably  relieved  after  delivering  himself  of  them.  He  went  out 
and  said  other  things  to  the  blackness  of  the  night.  Out 
there  he  met  Tony  Bill,  who  had  just  been  "turned  down'' 
by  a  Silver  Bell  lass,  and  the  two  found  sweet  consolation  in 
an  exchange  of  troubles. 

"Are  you  out  o'  -luck,  Buck?"  Tony  inquired. 

"Just  two  swigs  left,  Tony,  here."  He  pulled  a  bottle 
and  passed  it  over. 

Inside,  the  music  struck  up,  and  both  the  fiddle  and 
Peg  Leg  jumped  into  the  wild  canter  of  "Run,  Nigger,  Run," 
with  a  call  of, 

"S'lute  yer  pardners'  let  'er  go, 

Balance  all  an'  do-se-do, 

Swing  yer  girls  an'  run  away, 

Right  an'  left  an'  gents  sashay, 

Gents  to  right  an'  swing  or  cheat, 

On  to  the  next  gal  an'  repeat !" 

The  music  and  the  merriment  were  unheard  by  the  two 
aggrieved  diggers  from  Gold  Bug.  Tony  put  the  bottle  to 
his  lips,  threw  back  his  head,  and  gazed  with  half  closed  eyes 
at  the  Milky  Way.  Then  Buck  took  the  flask  and  studied 
the  constellations  for  a  while,  after  which  a  "dead  soldier" 
was  consigned  to  a  sage  bush. 

A  little  while  later,  Buck  shambled  across  the  dancing 
room,  drunkenly  dodging  the  couples  that  were  strenuously 
attempting  to  execute  Peg  Leg's  call  of, 

"Al'man  left  an'  balance  all, 

Lift  yer  hoofs  and  let  'em  fall, 

Swing  yer  op'sites,  swing  again, 

Back  to  pardners,  do-se-do, 

All  jine  hands  an'  off  you  go,    . 

Hitch  an'  promenade  to  seats  !?? 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       95 

Buck  wore  his  new  Stetson  well  down  over  his  left  eye — 
an  inevitable  sign  that  trouble  was  brewing. 

"We  had  the  ball  well  over  in  their  territory,"  Fields 
was  telling  Katy  in  his  rattling  way,  when  Buck  approached. 
"We  were  making  our  yardage  every  down,  and  reached  the 
25-yard  line,  where  the  captain  gave  the  signal  to  pass  the 
pigskin  back  for  a  punt.  I  was  playing  quarter,  and  was — 

"Say,  sonny,  I'd  like  to  see  you  outside  durin'  the  next 
dance,"  broke  in  Buck,  making  his  presense  known  prin 
cipally  by  a  smart  slap  on  the  "dare  devil's"  back. 

"I  had  just  slipped  the  ball  to  the  half,  when  he  fumbled, 
and  let  it—" 

"Time !"  yelled  Buck,  angrily.     "It  was  a  foul,  anyhow." 

"I  said  fumble,"  persisted  Fields. 

"No  matter  what  it  was,  I  want  to  see  you  outside." 

"All  right,  sir.  I  have  no  engagement  for  the  next 
dance,  and  will  be  pleased  to  see  you." 

Buck  turned  on  his  heel,  and  careened  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  an  odor  of  bad  liquor  behind  him. 

Fields  resumed  his  football  story,  getting  his  college 
team  safely  in  for  a  touchdown  and  a  clean  goal  kick,  much 
to  Katy's  delight.  He  remained  with  her  till  the  next  dance 
was  called,  then  arose  to  keep  his  appointment  with  Buck. 

When  he  reached  the  door  something  was  clinging  to 
him,  and  looking  down,  he  found  Katy  holding  to  his  arm.. 
There  was  real  terror  in  her  eyes.  She  trembled,  as  if  struck 
by  a  strange  fear.  "Please  be  careful  of  Buck,"  she  said. 
•'He's  mad  about  something,  and  is  a  bad  man  at  times." 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  Miss  Worden,"  Fields  replied, 
cheerfully.  "I  understand  Buck,  and  think  he  means  well. 
But  since  you  ask  it,  I  will  be  careful.  Go  enjoy  the  next 
dance;  that  stoper  over  there  is  running  his  boots  off  trying 
to  find  you."  With  a  polite  bow,  he  turned  in  the  door  and 
went  out  into  the  yard. 

But  Katy  did  not  enjoy  the  next  dance,  in  truth,  .did 
not  dance  at  all.  She  begged  to  be  excused,  something  she 
had  never  done  before,  and  slipped  quietly  from  the  room. 
She  went  out  the  side  door,  and  followed  the  deep  shadow  of 
the  boarding  house  wall,  hiding  behind  a  clump  of  sage. 


%  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

A  few  yards  away  a  crowd  was  gathered.  In  its  center 
Buck  Tyson  fumed  and  swore,  working  himself  into  a  rage 
over  an  imaginary  grievance.  "You  may  be  the  main  pearl 
of  the  cluster  back  in  Boston,  sonny,'  but  you're  just  plain 
base  rock  out  here.  You're  in  the  Big  Creek  country  now. 
did  you  know  that?". 

"I'm  sorry  I  have  offended  you,  Buck,"  Fields  declared. 
"I  have  tried  to  be  square — I  have  tried  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"Gentleman,  hell !"  roared  Buck.  "No  gentleman  would 
monopolize  a  lady  the  way  you  have  tonight.  She's  engaged 
to  me,  do  you  know  that?  And  I  will  fight  for  her  just  the 
same  as  if  she  was  my  wife." 

"That's  certainly  a  manly  spirit,  Buck,"  the  "dare  devil" 
replied,  commendably.  "But  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  -your 
trouble.  Maybe  it's  private;  if  so,  we'll  ask  the  boys  to  ex 
cuse  us,  and  we'll  talk  it  over  alone." 

"Naw,  it  ain't  private,"  yelled  Buck,  savagely.  "We've 
got  several  things  to  settle,  and  the  only  way  I  can  see  is  to 
fight." 

"Fight?  I'm  not  particularly  fond  of  it.  I  would  pre^ 
fer  to  arbitrate  our  little  difference." 

"'You  won't  fight,  eh?     Then  you're  a  damned  coward." 

"You'll  take  that  back,  you  cur!"  declared  the  "dare 
devil."  His  face  grew  white  and  tense.  His  black  eyes 
snapped  in  the  light  from  the  dancing  room.  He  threw  off 
his  coat  and  stood  fearlessly  before  the  bully,  his  fists 
clenched,  his  arms  bare  to  the  elbow.  He  knew  he  was  again 
facing  Mike  Stickncy  of  his  college  days,  facing  "Stick"  of 
the  Sewer  Gang. 

"Here  I  am,"  cried  the  "dare  devil,"  "without  knife  or 
pistol,  ready  to  meet  you.  Come  on.  I'm  no  coward,  I'll 
promise  you  that." 

A  fist  fight  was  not  the  sort  of  trouble  Buck  wanted,  and 
far  from  the  kind  he  expected.  He  was  confident  the  "dare 
devil",  would  beg  off  or  draw  his  gun.  It  was  up  to  him  to 
make  the  bluff  good. 

"Take  off  your  gun,  Buck,"  demanded  the  crowd,  "you 
must  meet  him  fair." 

Buck  reluctantly  unstrapped  his  holster,  and  tossed  aside 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.       97 

his  Stetson.  He  towered  head  and  shoulders  over  the  diminu 
tive  figure  of  the  "dare  devil."  It  was  much  like  a  match 
between  a  giant  and  a  pigmy. 

The  two  put  themselves  on  guard,  and  made  ready  for 
the  opening  blow.  At  that  moment  Katy  jumped  quickly 
from  her  hiding  place  and  stood  between  them.  "What  is 
the  meaning  of  this  ?"  she  asked,  as  if  she  knew  nothing 
about  it.  "Must  you  two  fight  like  curs  ?" 

"He  called  me  a  coward/'  explained  Fields,  apologeti 
cally.  He  folded  his  arms  and  waited,  as  if  anticipating  a 
further  command  from  her. 

"He's  drunk/'  frankly  informed  the  girl,  that  the  "dare 
devil"  might  have  full  appreciation  of  Buck's  irresponsibility. 
"Stop  your  quarreling,  both  of  you." 

It  was  a  command  from  Katy,  and  Fields  turned  to 
pick  up  his  coat.  The  crowd  gave  a  regretful  sigh,  believing 
the  bout  was  called  off. 

"Aw,  this  don't  go,"  Buck  snorted.  "You  go  in  the 
house,  Katy,  an'  let  us  settle  this.  It's  no  affair  of  yours." 
He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  pushed  her  rudely  toward  the 
door. 

"I'll  make  it  an  affair  of  mine,"  snapped  Katy,  jerk 
ing  free  of  his  grasp.  Turning  to  Fields,  she  commanded, 
sharply:  "Fight  him,  he  has  insulted  you — and  me." 

The  "dare  devil"  quickly  peeled  his  coat.  With  a  cat 
like  bound  he  landed  both  fists  on  Buck,  the  terrible.  His 
blows  came  with  such  rapidity  that  the  big  miner  could  not 
wink  between  them.  Upper  cuts,  swings,  straight  arms, 
sweeps,  all  figured  in  the  "dare  devil's"  manipulations.  He 
landed  anywhere  he  chose  on  Buck's  fighting  front.  Blood 
spurted  from  the  bully's  pummeled  nose,  and  his  whiskey- 
dazed  eyes  were  blinded.  A  final  undercut  lifted  him  from 
his  feet  and  dropped  him  sprawling  to  his  back. 

The  crowd  yelled.  It  was  the  best  exhibition  of  stand- 
up-and-take  fighting  that  the  diggers  of  the  Big  Creek 
country  had  ever  seen. 

The  "dare  devil"  stood  by  and  waited  for  Buck  to  rise. 
The  big  miner  finally  pulled  himself  together  and  came  up 


98  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

fast  and  furious.     Eeason  had  left  him,,  and  he  was  the  mad 
brute  who  in  other  days,  had  led  the  Sewer  Gang. 

Fields  made  ready  to  parry  the  expected  blow,  but  his 
blood  turned  suddenly  cold  with  the  gleam  of  a  knife  in 
Buck's  upraised  hand.  The  "dare  devil"  nimbly  dodged  the 
thrust  and  pounced  upon  the  miner  from  behind,  pinning 
his  arms  down  and  wrenching  the  blade  from  his  grasp. 
Then  he  turned  him  round  and  drove  a  fist  straight  into 
Buck's  face.  Tyson  fell  heavily,  groaning  and  cursing  on 
the  ground.  This  time  he  did  not  rise,  and  the  crowd  called 
time. 

Fields  recovered  his  breath,  and  a  smile  drove  the  palor 
from  his  face.  He  handed  Buck's  knife  to  one  of  the  crowd. 
"Give  it  to  him  when  he  comes  round,"  said  he,  calmly.  "Fm 
sorry  T  had  to  take  it  from  him." 

"And  here  is  something  more  to  give  him,"  said  Katy. 
She  slipped  a  ring  from  her  finger  and  passed  it  over.  Then 
she  hastened  to  Fields,  overtaking  him  near  the  door.  She 
took  his  hand  and  looked  into  his  face.  Her  eyes,  as  she 
raised  them  to  his,  were  moist  and  glowing.  In  them  Fields 
read  the  story  of  a  young  woman's  heart,  and  there  was  dis 
closed  to  him  a  new  and  wonderful  thing. 

"You  have  done  nobly,"  she  said.  "You  gave  him  what 
he  deserved." 

"I  am  sorry  I  had  to  fight,"  he  replied,  regretfully.  "I 
am  sorry  this  happened.  We  will  forget  that  it  ever  did 
happen." 

She  beamed  upon  him  again  with  mingled  forgiveness 
and  approval.  Arm  in  arm  they  entered  the  dance  room. 
Peg  Leg's  droning  fiddle  became  an  orchestra,  the  candles 
glittered  like  jeweled  chandeliers,  and  the  rough-beamed  din 
ing  room  glowed  with  color.  To  the  "dare  devil,"  who  had 
fought  a  fair  fight,  and  won,  the  whole  world  smiled  with 
love  and  content. 

Buck  Tyson  left  the  Big  Creek  country  and  was  seen  no 
more  at  Gold  Bug. 


t 

THE  SILVER 
CANDLESTICK 

t 

Gold  Bug's  clean-up  went  out  once  a  month.  Just 
when  it  went,  and  how,  were  matters  that  belonged 
solely  to  Hudson,  the  super;  Henderson,  the  amal 
gamator,  and  Colonel  Fields,  the  general  manager.  The 
Colonel  came  in  on  the  15th  of  each  month  to  hand  out  the 
pink  slips,  the  yellow  eagles  or  the  silver  bucks.  He  would 
remain  four  or  five  days,  and  return  over  the  road  on  Nero, 
his  yellow-eyed  broncho.  Sometimes  he  took  the  gold  with 
him;  at  other  times  it  went  out  on  the  buckboard;  and  now 
and  then  he  sent  it  out  by  Slivers  on  the  stage. 

One  February  he  came  out  as  usual,  arriving  on  the 
15th,  just  five  days  ahead  of  one  of  the  biggest  snowstorms 
that  ever  buried  Gold  Bug  under  its  feather  tick.  The  crew 
received  its  monthly  pay,  deals  and  debts  were  squared  down 
at  the  Dewdrop,  and  at  midnight  the  camp  buckled  down  for 
another  month's  routine. 

Early  on  the  22nd  the  amalgamator  carried  the  general 
manager's  saddle-bag  from  the  retorting  room  of  the  mill- 
house  over  to  the  office.  The  saddle-bag  hung  from  his  hand 
as  is  filled  with  lead.  He  laid  it  down  on  the  floor  near  the 
desk,  and  a  little  while  later  the  Colonel  prepared  to  leave. 

On  the  night  previous,  and  while  eating  supper  with  the 
diggers  at  the  boarding  house,  the  general  manager  reminded 
the  men  that  next  day  was  February  22nd. 

Washington's  Birthday,  at  Gold  Bug,  was  unique  among 
all  other  days  of  the  year.  On  that  day  every  man  of  the 
crew,  from  The  Kid  of  the  lower  level  pump  station,  to 
Mickey  Donnell,  the  camp  routsabout,  made  an  extra  effort 
to  "tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth." 
It  was  a  strain  of  great  tensity  on  the  nervous  system  of  the 
camp,  but  since  capital  was  placed  on  veracity,  for  that  one 


100  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

day  at  least,  the  effort  was  well  worth  the  sacrifice.  The 
Gold  Bug  management  gave  a  prize  to  the  man  who  could 
give  the  best  account  of  himself  at  the  day's  close.  This 
year  the  prize  offered  was  a  miner's  silver  candlestick.  The 
general  manager  had  the  stick  made  especially  for  the  occa 
sion,  and  every  part  of  it,  from  the  loop  to  the  beak,  was  the 
pure  white  metal  of  Colorado. 

Simpson,  the  foreman,  held  it  over  the  mess  table,  where 
the  light  from  the  candles  made  it  glitter  like  a  jewel.  "The 
digger  who  gets  this  will  be  well  paid  for  tellin'  the  truth/' 
said  the  foreman.  "But  it  must  be  remembered  that  no  sort 
of  a  lie  will  pass  tomorrow — not  for  the  one  who  gets  this 
stick.  There  ain't  many  cherry  trees  around  Gold  Bug  to 
tempt  us,  but  there  are  many  easy  chances  to  let  our  tongues 
slip — there  are  many  ways  to  tell  a  lie,  and  still  keep  silent. 
This  stick  goes  to  the  man  who  is  most  successful  in  standin' 
off  a  falsehood,  or  who  can  prove  that  he  made  the  best  fight 
to  prevent  deception." 

On  the  morning  of  the  22nd.  the  storm  that  had  been 
scouting  along  the  backbone  of  the  Big  Creek  mountains  for 
several  days,  scattering  light  volleys  of  snow,  joined  the  main 
forces,  and  charged  with  full  fury  upon  the  pine-whiskered 
ranges.  The  general  manager  donned  his  bear  coat,  cap  and 
gloves,  and  with  only  his  nose  exposed  to  the  wind,  mounted 
Nero  and  struck  through  the  storm  toward  Boulder.  The 
heavy  saddle-bag  was  strapped  to  the  saddle. 

In  less  than  an  hour  he  was  back  at  the  office,  warming 
his  back  before  the  fire  that  crackled  and  leaped  in  the  broad 
fireplace.  "The  storm  didn't  bother  me,"  he  explained  to 
Dixon,  "but  Nero  lost  his  wind — couldn't  keep  his  pace — the 
blamed  hostler  must  have  fed  him  too  much  barley  this  morn 
ing,  for  he's  pretty  nearly  foundered.  I  had  Tom  throw  the 
bags  off  before  he  took  the  broncho  to  the  stable.  It's  out  on 
the  porch;  I  wish  you  would  bring  it  in  Dixon,  as  I  want  to 
cache  that  luchre." 

The  bookkeeper  went  out,  admitting  a  blinding  gust 
when  he  opened  the  door.  He  returned  shortly,  and  laid  the 
saddle-bag  on  the  desk,  putting  it  down  dubiously  with  a 
strange  expression  on  his  face.  "I  understood  you  to  remark 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      101 

that  you  had  carried  the  month's  clean-up  in  this  bag/'  said 
he,  quizzically. 

"Yes,  that's  right/'  the  manager  replied. 

"Well,  there's  something  wrong.  If  that  gold  is  in  here 
now,  you  certainly  had  a  light  clean-up  this  month.  This 
bag  is  light  as  cotton.  One  side  of  it  is  open." 

The  Colonel  had  been  half  asleep  before  the  fire.  The 
bookkeeper's  words  awoke  him  instantly.  "What's  that?" 
he  exclaimed.  "Opened,  you  say?"  He  spoke  sharply,  and 
came  toward  the  desk,  lifting  the  bag  apprehensively.  Then 
he  thrust  his  hand  through  the  open  flap.  The  bag  was 
empty !  "The  gold  is  gone,  every  ounce  of  it,  over  $20,000  !" 

"The  bag  was  just  as  you  see  it  now,  when  I  picked  it 
up,"  said  Dixon,  hurriedly,  to  ward  off  possible  suspicion. 

"I  know,"  the  manager  replied.  "The  gold  was  care 
lessly  put  in  the  bag,  and  fell  out.  I  dropped  it  out  on  the 
road,  and  it's  now  buried  under  the  snow.  I  may  have  lost 
it  only  a  short  distance  out.  Go  tell  Simpson  to  saddle  the 
two  roans  and  come  around  at  once.  I  want  him  to  go  with 
me.  We  may  be  able  to  find  it  if  we  hit  the  road  at  once." 

Dixon  jumped  into  his  Coat  and  dashed  up  the  trail  to 
the  shaft  house.  Simpson  had  just  come  up  from  the  lower 
level,  and  the  bookkeeper  made  known  the  trouble.  Within 
five  minutes  the  two  roans  were  stamping  and  snorting  by 
the  office  door;  within  six,  the  general  manager  and  the  fore 
man  were  in  the  saddle,  and  dashing  down  the  snow-piled 
road.  The  fleece  had  ceased  falling,  but  the  wind  blew  with 
increased  fury,  biting  icily  at  their  exposed  cheeks. 

A  half-mile  from  camp  they  came  upon  the  sorrel  team 
of  Mickey,  the  roustabout.  Mickey  lived  with  Peg  Leg,  the 
fiddler,  and  their  cabin  stood  off  from  the  road  a  short  dis 
tance,  completely  concealed  by  tall  chaparral  and  rank  cinna 
mon.  The  sorrels  were  steaming,  and  the  newly-cut  tracks 
indicated  that  the  buckboard  had  just  come  up  the  road,  and 
that  the  team  had  only  recently  been  tied,  possibly  to  wait  a 
few  minutes  while  the  roustabout  stopped  at  the  cabin. 
There  was  a  chance  that  Mickey,  who  had  just  come  over  the 
road,  had  found  the  gold. 

"We  better  stop  and  ask  him  about  it,"  suggested  the 


102  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

Colonel.  "Mickey  may  have  seen  it  as  he  came  along.  My 
trail  is  only  partially  obscured,  and  the  gold  would  not  be 
completely  covered,  unless  piled  under  a  drift." 

"I  think  the  gold  would  be  safer  on  the  road  than  in 
Mickey's  hands,"  declared  Simpson.  "I  wouldn't  trust  either 
he  or  Peg  Leg  with  a  punctured  poker  chip/' 

"I  suppose  Mickey  isn't  very  reliable,"  the  Colonel  re 
turned,  "but  his  bad  reputation  has  come  to  him,  no  doubt, 
through  his  association  with  Peg  Leg.  Possibly  it  would  be 
best  for  us  to  approach  the  cabin  afoot,  that  we  may  not  make 
any  noise.  The  team's  being  tied  up  out  here  looks  suspici 
ous.  T  am  unable  to  understand  why  Mickey  should  stop 
unless  he  had  business  of  importance  at  the  cabin." 

They  left  their  ponies  on  the  road,  and  proceeded  cauti 
ously  toward  the  cabin.  Smoke  blew  thinly  from  the  low 
chimney,  and  when  the  two  men  reached  the  back  well,  they 
heard  Peg  Leg  talking  loudly.  The  general  manager  and 
Simpson  put  their  ears  to  a  chink  and  listened. 

"What  you  want  to  take  it  back  to  the  mine  for  ?  They 
will  never  miss  it,"  Peg  Leg  was  heard  to  say. 

"But  he  did  miss  it,"  Mickey  answered.  "I  saw  his 
tracks  where  he  wheeled  and  came  back." 

"He'll  never  expect  to  find  it.  If  you  hadn't  come 
across  it,  it  would  soon  have  been  buried  under  the  snow. 
We'll  freeze  on  to  it.  The  Gold  Bug  has  plenty  more,  and 
these  four  bricks  will  never  be  missed." 

"I  don't  see  it  that  way,"  Mickey  answered,  "I'm  going 
to  take  it  back." 

"The  hell  you  are !" 

"That's  just  what  I  am.  It  don't  belong  to  me,  and  I'd 
feel  devilish  squeamish  with  so  much  wealth  around  me." 

"You're  a  little  fool,"  Peg  Leg  informed  him,  bitterly. 
"This  is  lost  money — the  loser  to  weep,  the  finder  to  keep." 

"No,  it  ain't  mine.  I'm  going  to  take  it  back.  If  I 
had  found  it  on  some  other  day,  I  might  have  kept  it,  or 
some  of  it,  but  today — do  you  know  what  day  this  is?" 

"Aw,  shut  up !"  yelled  Peg  Leg,  stamping  the  floor  with 
his  wooden  limb.  "What's  the  use  of  you  and  I  bein'  poor 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      105 

devils  all  our  lives,  when  we  have  a  chance  like  this  to  make 
a  haul?" 

"I  want  to  make  mine  some  other  way/'  Mickey  said. 
"I'd  enjoy  my  chuck  better,  and  I  know  I'd  sleep  without 
fear  of  the  jim-jams.  No  need  chewing  the  rag,  the  bricks 
go  back/' 

"You'll  get  my  consent  first,  I'll  tell  you  that,"  Peg 
Leg  fiercely  declared.  "Let  go  that  bag,  drop  it,  I  say." 

"]STo,  I  can't  do  it,  Peg." 

The  fiddler  swore  as  only  a  fiddler  can.  Then  the  two 
men  heard  him  stamp  on  the  floor,  as  he  wrestled  with  Mic 
key  to  get  possession  of  the  gold. 

"Stand  back,  Peg,  stand  back,"  Mickey  warned.  Then 
came  the  sound  of  a  struggle,  as  the  two  fought  over  the  gold. 
Peg  Leg  was  much  the  larger  of  the  two,  and  from  the  peep 
hole  Simpson  saw  him  force  the  roustabout  to  a  corner. 

"We'd  better  go  and  pull  him  off,"  said  the  foreman, 
"for  he's  getting  desperate  and  might  do  Mickey  consider 
able  damage." 

They  rushed  around  to  the  front  and  pushed  in  the  door. 
Peg  Leg  had  floored  Mickey  with  a  chair,  and  was  savagely 
jabbing  him  with  his  wooden  leg.  Though  blood  spurted 
from  a  broken  nose  and  a  bad  cut  on  his  head,  the  roustabout 
would  not  release  his  hold  upon  the  treasure. 

Simpson  took  Peg  Leg  by  the  scuff  of  the  neck,  and  sent 
him  spinning  to  a  further  corner  of  the  cabin.  Then  he 
lifted  Mickey  to  his  feet. 

"It's  a  good  thing  wo  stopped,"  said  the  general  man 
ager.  "We  were  none  too  soon,  and  would  have  got  in  sooner 
had  we  known  that  one-legged  maverick  would  attempt  to 
murder  you.  You're  true  blue,  Mickey,  and  no  mistake.  We 
heard  you  talk,  and  know  you  have  the  proper  stuff  in  you. 
I'll  take  you  to  the  office,  and  have  your  head  patched  up. 
Bring  Peg  Leg  along  with  you,  Simpson.  We'll  tell  the  boys 
the  straight  of  it  tonight,  and  let  them  kangoroo  him." 

A  little  while  later  Mickey  lay  at  ease  on  the  big  couch 
in  a  warm  mine  office,  with  the  camp  doctor  working  over 
him.  The  four  bricks  reposed  safely  in  the  vault,  and  the 
general  manager,  settled  deep  in  an  armchair  before  the  fire, 


106  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

idly  amused  himself  at  blowing  the  smoke  that  floated  over 
him  from  his  glowing  cigar. 

That  evening,  after  "chuck"  was  over,  and  just  before 
the  night  shift  went  on,  the  crew  assembled  in  the  bunkhouse 
"parlor."  Simpson  called  to  order,  and  those  who  had  exerted 
themselves  during  the  day  to  prevent,  a  slip  of  the  tongue, 
gave  their  experience.  The  "Benedict,"  who  occupied  a  cabin 
alone,  who  was  never  known  to  treat  anyone  except  him 
self,  and  who  was  always  without  tobacco  when  approached 
for  a  "chew,"  confessed  his  ownership  of  a  plug  to  all  comers 
that  day;  Tony  Bill  had  said  no  word  about  the  Bowery,  and 
frankly  admitted  to  those  who  asked  him  concerning  it,  that 
he  was  an  ex-member  of  the  Whyes;  even  the  Old-Timer 
had  denied  himself  his  beloved  tales  of  "Californy,"  and  the 
diggers  were  on'  the  point  of  voting  him  the  candle  stick, 
when  the  door  opened  and  the  general  manager  came  in,  lead 
ing  Mickey  by  the  arm.  Of  all  the  crew,  Mickey  was  at 
least  expected  to  be  in  line  for  the  prize.  His  bandaged  face 
prevented  his  telling  the  story,  so  the  Colonel  told  it  for  him, 
with  greater  embellishment  than  Mickey  would  have  given  it. 

When  the  manager  was  done,  the  tales  of  the  Benedict, 
Tony  Gill  and  the  Old-Timer  were  as  waste  on  a  tailings  pile 
— Mickey's  deed  was  the  real  yellow  metal  in  the  retorting 
pot. 

The  vote  that  followed  was  unanimous.  The  candle 
stick  went  to  Mickey. 


A  CONFUSION  of 
GOODS 

HEN  Lem  Golden  learned  that  his  Sister  Ann  was 
coming  all  the  way  from  Dakota  to  make  him  a  visit 
he  prepared  to  quit  his  seat  at  the  boarding  house 
mess  table.  He  straightway  put  one  of  the  camp  cabins  in  fit 
condition  for  company.  Education  had  taught  him  taste, 
necessity  had  taught  him  handiness,  and  by  the  aid  of  the  two 
he  transformed  the  rude  cabin  into  something  approaching 
the  rooms  of  his  home  out  on  the  Dakota  plains.  He  divided 
the  cabin  into  three  parts :  drawing  room,  curiosity  shop  and 
kitchen.  The  latter  department  was  given  all  due  considera 
tion  by  Lem,  as  he  was  not  alone  to  have  the  pleasure  of  his 
sister's  company  during  the  summer,  but  would  enjoy  a 
respite  from  the  "camp  sinkers"  and  "mulligan"  of  the  board 
ing  house.  The  hot  biscuits  his  sister  could  bake  would, 
indeed,  be  a  welcome  change.  So  the  freight  wagon  brought 
in  a  real  cook  stove.  Then  cups,  saucers  and  spoons,  pots  and 
kettles  appeared  as. if  by  magic. 

Unfortunately  for  Lem,  though  fortunate  for  another,  as 
later  developments  proved,  he  was  caught  between  the  cage 
door  and  a  station  beam  just  a  few  days  before^he  time  for 
his  going  out  to  Boulder  to  meet  his  sister,  and  was  so  badly 
bruised  by  the  squeeze  that  l1^  could  not  make  the  trip.  It 
became  necessary,  therefore,  for  Lem  to  send  someone  else. 
There  was  not  a  digger  in  camp  but  who  would  gladly  have 
gone,  had  he  been  asked,  and  more  than  one  voluntarily 
hinted  his  willingness  to  meet  and  escort  the  young  woman  to 
Gold  Bug. 

After  due  consideration  Lem  decided  that  Barney  May- 
field  was  the  most  competent  of  all.  Barney  was  his  bunkie 
and  Barney  was  his  friend;  more  than  that,  Barney  was  his 
cousin,  and  flesh  and  blood  go  a  long  way  in  the  conferring 
of  special  favors. 


108  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

So  Barney  togged  himself  in  his  best,  buying  a  new  Stet 
son  and  a  full  suit  of  corduroy  for  the  occasion.  He  also 
bought  the  biggest  and  brightest  crimson  tie  carried  in  the 
camp  store.  It  was  of  the  four-in-hand  kind,  and  Barney, 
with  a  real  miner's  clumsiness,  could  not  arrange  it  alone. 
Lena  arranged  it  for  him,  with  the  understanding  that  it  was 
to  remain  so  arranged  till  after  Barney's  return. 

In  due  time  Barney  was  fully  prepared  for  the  journey. 
The  express  boxes  were  slid  under  the  stage  seats,  the  mail 
pouches  were  stuffed  into  the  boot  and  strapped  in,  Slivers 
cracked  his  blacksnake  over  the  leaders,  and  Barney  left  Gold 
Bug  amid  the  cheers  and  hurrahs  of  a  crowd  that  had  assem 
bled  at  the  camp  store  to  see  him  off.  The  stage  bounded 
and  rattled  down  the  road,  diving  into  the  canyon,  and  leav 
ing  a  thin  trail  of  dust  in  its  wake. 

According  to  schedule,  the  stage  made  the  40-mile  trip 
to  Boulder  in  one  day,  remaining  over  night  and  returning 
to  Gould  Bug  the  day  following.  The  train  arrived  at  six  in 
the  morning,  just  a  half  hour  before  the  stage  departed. 

On  the  morning  that  Miss  Anna  Golden  was  expected 
the  train  was  three-quarters  of  an  hour  late,  and  Slivers  was 
obliged  to  hold  the  stage,  a  circumstance  that  always  brought 
from  him  such  remarks  as  only  stage  drivers  are  capable  of 
making.  To  Slivers'  credit,  however,  be  it  known  that  on 
this  occasion  his  remarks  were  confined  to  the  more  secluded 
precincts  of  the  stage  stable,  and  were  heard  only  by  the 
horses  and  the  hostler. 

Barney  Mayfield  never  suffered  a  longer  half  hour  than 
that  passed  by  him  before  the  arrival  of  the  delayed  train. 
He  had  not  slept  much  that  night,  because  of  his  fear  that  he 
might  not  awake  in  time  to  be  at  the  depot  when  the  train 
came  in.  Then,  to  add  to  his  discomfort,  one  side  of  his  crim 
son  tie  came  down,  and  though  Barney  worked  heroically  to 
replace  it,  he  could  not  readjust  it  to  the  crisp,  smart  shape 
it  was  before.  It  hung  as  limp  and  shapeless  as  a  dish-rag  on 
a  line  and,  finally,  in  a  fit  of  disgust,  Barney  told  the  look 
ing-glass  that  "the  darn  thing  could  hang." 

At  last  the  train  came.  Since  it  paused  but  a  brief  time 
at  the  station,  Barney  made  haste  to  climb  into  the  vestibule 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  109 

and  entered  the  rear  chair  car.  He  had  never  seen  Miss  Anna 
Golden,  but  Lem  had  so  frequently  described  her  that  he 
knew  he  could  recognize  her  instantly — brown  hair,  dark 
"hazel"  eyes,  round  cheeks,  quite  plump. 

Barney  stood  a  little  while  at  the  door  and  looked  down 
the  car.  Most  of  the  passengers  were  asleep  and  were  doubled 
and  stretched  in  various  styles  of  discomfort  on  the  narrow 
seats.  Everybody  snored. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  car  a  young  woman,  attired  in 
a  neat  white  waist  and  trim  blue  skirt,  and  a  dainty  hat 
poised  on  her  head,  half  arose  and  looked  at  Barney  expect 
antly.  She  reached  for  a  traveling  case  and  umbrella  in  the 
rack,  and  by  thisj  as  well  as  her  general  resemblance  to  Lena's 
oft-repeated  description,  Barney  knew  she  was  Miss  Anna 
Golden.  He  walked  hurriedly  and  confidently  down  the  aisle. 
"Wait  a  minute,"  said  he,  "I'll  get  them  down  for  you." 
Then  he  added :  "And  how  is  my  little  cousin  this  morning  ?" 

"Oh,  fine,"  she  responded,  extending  her  hand.  "I  am 
glad  you  came;  they  said  you  would  meet  me;  and  I  came 
near  passing  my  station,  as  I  was  dozing  a  moment  ago." 

"This  is  the  place,"  Barney  replied,  taking  her  hand. 
There  was  such  a  warmness  in  the  grasp,  such  an  air  of 
genuine  cordiality  about  her,  such  a  pretty  smile  upon  her 
lips,  that — well,  he  did  what  all  good  and  true  cousins  are 
privileged  to  do.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  It 
brought  a  bright  crimson  blush,  but  after  it  was  all  over  she 
smiled  at  him  even  more  prettily  than  before. 

He  took  up  her  load  and  followed  her  down  the  car  and 
out  on  the  platform.  Her  trunk  was  put  aboard  the  stage, 
and  in  a  little  while  the  two  occupied  a  seat  all  alone  in  the 
coach  and  were  whirling  along  the  dusty  road,  oblivious  to  the 
alkali. 

"How  did  you  recognize  me  so  quickly  ?"  she  asked,  when 
they  were  some  distance  out  from  Boulder. 

•"Well,  you  was  the  only  one  in  the  car  who  was  ready 
to  get  off." 

"But  there  might  have  been  several  women  ready  to  get 
off  with  me ;  in  fact,  another  one  did  get  off,  but  she  came  out 
of  the  other  car.  I  saw  her  walking  around  the  platform, 


110  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

looking  about  anxiously  while  you  was  putting  my  trunk  on 
the  stage.     You  might  have  taken  her  for  me." 

"Yes, 'but  I  didn't,"  Barney  returned  with  a  triumphat 
smile.  "I  knew  you  the  minute  I  spotted  you.  I  would  have 
known  you  on  Fifth  avenue  or  Broadway,  or  any  other  of 
them  places  where  people  are  as  thick  as  flies  on  a  molasses 
keg.  I  couldn't  help  but  know  you  after  Lem's  description 
of  you. 

"Lem?"  spoke  the  young  woman  instantly.  "Who  is 
Lem  ?" 

"Oh,  come  on,  you're  coddin'  me/'  returned  Barney,  a 
sickly  smile  appearing  suddenly  on  his  face.  "You  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  your  own  brother?" 

"I  have  no  brother,"  declared  the  young  woman,  drawing 
away  from  him.  "I  thought  you  were  my  cousin,  Max  Free 
man,  from  the  Silver  Bell.  He  was  to  meet  me.  What  have 
you  done  ?  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?" 

'I  though  you  were  Miss  Anna  Golden,"  Barney  stam 
mered.  "Her  brother  sent  me  out  to  meet  her.  I  am  from 
Gold  Bug." 

The  young  woman  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  face  and 
Barney  was  become  of  the  awful  fear  that  she  was  going  to 
cry.  A  peculiar  coldness  and  numbness  took  possession  of 
him.  Such  a  predicament  as  this  he  was  altogether  unpre 
pared  to  meet.  He  was  sorry,  very  sorry;  not  that  he  had 
been  courteous  and  kind  to  her,  that  he  had  even  gone  so  far 
as  to  kiss  her,  but  sorry  that  he  had  made  such  a  mistake. 
The  real  Anna  Golden  was  no  doubt  waiting  patiently  at  the 
depot,  wondering  why  no  one  came  for  her. 

"We  must  go  back,"  the  young  woman  declared.  "Cousin 
Max  will  be  looking  for  me." 

Since  it  was  the  only  plausible  and  reasonable  thing  to 
do,  Barney  offered  no  objections,  and  crawled  up  to  make  ex 
planations  to  Slivers.  Barney  fully  expected  to  hear  Slivers 
deliver  a  string  of  oaths  that  would  make  an  Irish  tar  turn 
blue  with  envy,  but  much  to  his  surprise,  Slivers  doubled  up 
on  the  seat  and  laughed;  laughed  so  violently  and  heartily 
that  he  mixed  his  lines  and  let  both  leaders  get  astride  of  the 
tongue. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  113 

The  stage  was  turned  about  on  the  back  track  for 
Boulder.  Barney  and  the  young  woman  settled  down  to  make 
the  best  of  the  situation. 

Now  that  things  were  working  towards  proper  adjust 
ment,  Barney  felt  better.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  at  least 
become  acquainted  with  the  girl.  Why  not?  She  was  good 
looking,  she  was  gracious,  she  was  tasty  in  dress,  she  was 
plump ;  Barney  could  ask  no  more. 

"You  say  you  are  going  out  to  Silver  Bell  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  Cousin  Max  works  out  there,  and  has  secured  a 
place  for  me  at  the  boarding  house." 

"Slinging  ha — waiting  on  table?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  girl,  lowly,  from  behind  her  hand 
kerchief.  "Isn't  that  all  right?" 

"Certainly  it's  all  right;  but  I  was  just  thinking." 

"Thinking  of  what  ?  It's  pretty  late  for  you  to  be  think 
ing.  You  should  have  been  thinking  when  you  came  into  the 
car,  and  not  imposed  upon  an  innocent,  helpless  woman." 

"I'm  sorry  I  treated  you  the  way  I  have." 

"Your  treatment  has  been  all  right,  I  suppose,  consider 
ing  the  circumstances.  You  have  been  kind,  but  you  were  un 
thinking.  It  vexed  me  to  think  that  I  took  up  with  you  so 
readily,  that  I  let  you — 

"You  thought  I  was  your  cousin." 

"But  you  are  not." 

"No,  I  am  not,  but  even  though  we  are  not  cousins,  it  is 
all  right,  anyway,"  Barney  smiled  at  her  and  received  a  faint 
smile  in  return.  "It  is  all  right,  because  we  seem  to  have  a 
sort  of  liking  for  each  other,  as  people  sometimes  have.  I 
liked  you  the  moment  I  first  glimpsed  you.  I  just  couldn't 
help  but  like  you.  I  guess  it  is  one  of  these  affinity  cases  that 
we  read  about." 

Notwithstanding  its  frankness,  there  was  something 
pleasing  in  Barney's  philosophy,  and  the  girl  liked  it,  as  she 
knew  she  liked  him.  There  was  more  than  empty  flattery  in 
what  he  said;  there  was  eloquence,  the  rough,  unpolished 
eloquence  of  a  miner,  but  above  all  there  was  genuine  sin 
cerity. 


114  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  me,"  she  admitted,  removing  her 
handkerchief,  and  gazing  at  him  with  a  lonely,  almost  sad 
look  glowing  from  the  eyes  where  tears  still  lingered  tardily, 
"but  strangers  should  not  be  as  familiar  as  we  have  been." 

"Someway,  we  don't  seem  like  strangers/7  Barney  said. 
"Seems  that  I  have  known  you  for  a  long  time." 

"We  must  not  forget  that  we  are  strangers,"  she  de 
manded,  retreating  again  to  her  corner,  as  if  to  close  the 
entire  incident. 

But  Barney  did  not  intend  that  matters  should  end  that 
way.  "Now,  look  here,"  said  he,  coming  straight  to  the 
point.  "You  and  I  have  been  thrown  together  by  some  power 
unknown  to  us,  and  over  which  we  have  no  control.  I  always 
figure  it  out  that  there  is  a  reason  for  these  things.  When 
ever  anything  happens  to  me  that  I  don't  understand  or  can't 
explain,  instead  of  passing  it  up  and  forgetting  it,  I  just 
conclude  that  it  means  or  will  mean  something  to  me,  and  by 
and  by  I  find  out  that  it  does.  You  have  been  brought  across 
my  trail  for  a  good  purpose.  You  say  you  are  going  out  to 
Silver  Bell  to  sling — to  wait  on  table.  That's  where  you 
planned  to  go,  but  that  strange  power  has  switched  you  off 
the  path  and  headed  you  toward  Gold  Bug,  a  better,  bigger 
camp  than  Silver  Bell  ever  was  or  ever  will  be." 

The  girl  smiled  aloud.  "You're  clever,"  said  she.  "You 
should  have  had  some  one  better  than  I  to  pour  that  talk 
upon." 

"It  has  been  reserved  for  you,"  Barney  declared.  "I  did 
not  know  I  carried  any  such  talk  in  stock,  but  the  one  for 
whom  it  is  meant  having  appeared,  and  the  time  having  ar 
rived,  I  am  obliged  to  deliver  it.  But  as  I  was  saying,  or 
going  to  say — why  can't  you  go  out  to  Gold  Bug?  I  don't 
want  you  to  sling — to  wait  on  table  at  Silver  Bell;  it  would 
be  too  hard  for  you." 

"It  would  be  no  harder  than  waiting  on  table  at  Gold 
Bug,"  said  the  girl. 

"What's  the  use  of  your  doing  either  ?  I  have  a  different 
plan  in  my  mind.  There  are  several  pretty  little  cabins  up 
there;  you  can  pick  out  the  best  one.  and  I'll  see  that  it's 
fixed  fine  and  dandy.  I  have  a  good  job,  and  will  guarantee 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  115 

that  there  will  be  plenty  coming  right  along  to  keep  the  two 
of  us  comfortable." 

The  girl  leaned  her  head  against  the  door  sill  and  looked 
out  across  the  bronzed  mountains,  now  glorious  in  the  crimson 
and  purple  of  morning.  The  smile  left  her  face.  She  knew 
the  man  was  not  jesting.  She  knew  he  was  in  earnest.  She 
did  not  drop  her  head  to  peep  up  through  her  eyelashes  and 
say :  "Oh,  this  is  so  sudden/'  Such  a  remark  would  have  been 
imminently  appropriate,  but  it  is  one  that  comes  from  the  lips 
of  those  who  have  heard  such  proposals  many  times  before. 

Barney  looked  at  her  and  waited,  but  she  made  no  reply. 
Finally  she  turned  her  head  from  the  door  and  looked  at  him, 
and  though  she  spoke  no  word,  the  warmth  of  a  lonely 
woman's  soul  glowed  in  her  eyes  and  Barney  understood.  He 
was  right ;  they  were  not  strangers,  though  they  had  never  met 
before.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and  with  bared  head,  raised  her 
hand  to  his  lips. 

In  a  little  while  they  were  back  at  the  depot,  with  the 
stage  backed  up  to  the  platform.  Slivers  was  still  gurgling 
with  unrestrained  laughter.  This  joke  on  Barney  Mayfield 
was  the  richest  Slivers  had  come  upon  for  several  trips,  and 
he  intended  to  enjoy  it  to  the  full. 

Barney  helped  the  young  woman  out,  and  the  two  of 
them  skirmished  hurriedly  around  the  depot  in  quest  of  the 
lost  cousins.  They  found  them  in  the  waiting  room,  and  Bar 
ney  was  again  obliged  to  explain  the  situation.  "Cousin 
Max?'  received  it  soberly,  but  "Cousin  Anna"  enjoyed  it  even 
more  than  Slivers. 

And  since  the  thing  was  to  be  settled  at  once  and  for  all 
time,  Slivers  held  the  stage  while  Barney  "rustled"  a  license 
and  a  preacher.  They  all  boarded  the  stage  and  drove  a  little 
way  out  of  Boulder,  where  the  ceremony  was  performed  in  the 
old  Concord,  with  Slivers  and  "Cousin  Max"  as  best  men.  It 
did  not  occur  to  Barney  till  then  that  he  did  not  know  the 
young  woman's  name. 

"It  was  Emma  Medley,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  merry 
laugh. 

"But  it's  something  else  now,"  Barney  replied,  after  the 
minister  spoke  the  word. 


f 


WHEN  THE  RED 
JACKET  PAID 


Eed  Jacket  was  a  sort  of  annex  to  Gold  Bug.  It 
was  located  about  a  half  mile  further  up  the  canyon, 
and  was  a  part  of  the  properties  of  the  Gold  Bug 
Mining  Company.  There  was  a  20-stamp  mill  on  the  Eed 
Jacket,  and  the  men  employed  on  the  day  and  night  shifts 
were  a  part  of  the  Gold  Bug  crew.  Hudson,  the  super,  kept 
the  20  stamps  pounding  night  and  day,  though  both  he  and 
the  Gold  Bug  management  knew  the  Eed  Jacket  wasn't  pay 
ing.  But  to  hang  up  stamps  was  something  Hudson  would 
not  do.  The  thunder  and  roar  of  a  stamp  mill  was  music 
to  his  ears,  even  though  the  price  was  dear. 

One  day  a  young  fellow,  clad  in  khiki  and  miner's  boots, 
came  in  on  the  stage.  He  went  at  once  to  the  superintendent's 
office  and  introduced  himself.  The  introduction,  together 
with  the  letter  of  instructions  received  by  Hudson  a  few  days 
before,  put  him  by  the  knowledge  that  the  young  fellow  was 
Layton  Pelford,  the  new  super  the  general  manager  had  sent 
all  the  way  from  the  East  to  take  charge  of  the  Eed  Jacket. 

Hudson  led  him  to  the  door  and  pointed  a  fat  finger  up 
the  gulch.  "You'll  find  Eed  Jacket  up  the  canyon  yonder, 
just  beyond  the  waste  dump,"  he  directed.  "There  are  12 
men  on  the  day  shift  and  10  on  the  night;  the  booky  can  give 
you  the  list.  The  candles  are  at  the  blacksmith  shop,  and  the 
powder  is  in  the  mag.  Won't  you  come  have  a  drink  ?" 

"No  thanks,"  the  newcomer  returned,  "it's  against  my 
rules." 

"All  rules  miss  fire  out  here,"  Hudson  returned,  leaving 
the  office  abruptly  and  hitting  the  trail  for  the  Dewdrop.  The 
Eed  Jacket  and  its  new  super  were  dismissed  from  his  mind 
for  all  time.  The  new  super  jumped  around  like  a  brown 
grasshopper  on  a  hot  stove.  He  was  all  over  the  surface  work 
ings  in  less  than  an  hour,,  inspecting  every  part  of  the  Eed 


118      THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

Jackets  equipment  from  the  shop  bellows  to  the  smelter.  He 
mounted  the  skip  and  went  down  the  incline,  stopping  on 
every  level  and  dodging  into  each  drift  and  tunnel.  Shortly 
after  he  emerged,  the  Red  Jacket  stamps  were  hung  up,  and 
the  machine  drills  pulled  out  of  the  stopes. 

That  evening,  after  the  supper  clatter  had  subsided  at 
the  mess  house,  and  the  night  shift  was  getting  its  canvas 
coats  from  the  change  room,  the  Red  Jacket  men  were  called 
to  the  superintendent's  office.  They  straggled  up  reluctantly 
and  stood  around  in  little  groups  and  squads,  much  like  guilty 
school  boys  waiting  a  turn  at  the  gad.  It  was  rumored 
around  during  the  afternoon  that  "the  devil  would  pop"  that 
night. 

The  new  super ,  came  to  the  door  and  begun  to  talk. 
Though  he  was  a  minnow,  his  was  a  deep  base  voice,  slow 
and  deliberate.  "There's  no  need  of  you  boys  taking  the 
•trail' for  the  Red  Jacket  tonight,"  said  he,  "as  there  won't 
be  anything  doing  there  for  some  time,  at  least  till  the  pay 
streak  is  located.  The  mine  is  a  loser,  as  all  of  you  know. 
This  red  dirt  around  the  office  could  just  as  well  be  run 
through  the  mill  as  the  rock  now  being  taken  out.  I've  been 
put  in  charge  by  the  management,  and  am  going  to  try  to 
•find  the  pay  streak.  I'm  sorry,  but  I'll  have  to  turn  off 
every  man  except  the  engineer  and  fireman  and  the  lower 
level  drill  men.  The  others  may  come  in  and  get  their  pay." 

It  was  a  sweeping  order,  and  a  stunning  blow  to  the  Red 
Jacket  men.  When  the  first  shock  of  it  had  passed,  each 
man  stepped  forward,  as  his  name  was  called,  received  a  little 
pink  slip,  and  walked  out  sullenly. 

When  all  were  gone,  the  little  super  turned  to  the  desk, 
lighted  the  dusty  lamp,  and  scrawled  off  a  brief  telegram  to 
Colonel  Fields,  general  manager,  of  the  Gold  Bug  Mining 
Company,  New  York: 

"Have  shut  down  mill.  Fired  whole  crew,  except  engi 
neer,  fireman  and  four  drill  men." 

Then  he  drew  from  his  trunk  a  sheet  of  pale  blue  paper, 
found  a  dainty  envelope  to  match,  and  returning  to  the  desk, 
wrote : 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  121 

"Miss  Lottie  Fields, 

New  York  City. 

"My  Own  Dear  Lottie: 

"Just  arrived  at  the  mine  today.  Have  found  things 
at  the  Bed  Jacket  in  very  bad  shape,  and  I've  a  big  task 
before  me  to  make  a  mine  of  it,  but  I'm  going  to  make  a 
hard  try.  Please  pardon  this  very  brief  note,  but  having 
just  arrived,  and  with  so  very  much  to  do,  I  can  only  drop 
you  a  line  tonight.  With  much  love,  and  trusting  I  may 
hear  from  you  every  day,  I  am,  yours  truly,  LAYTON." 

He  mailed  the  letter  at  the  camp  postoffice,  but  as  Placer 
was  the  nearest  telegraph  station,  the  roustabout  was  called 
and  dispatched  on  the  20-mile  ride  to  put  the  message  on  the 
wire. 

Next  day  Pelford  made  an  expert  examination  of  the 
Eed  Jacket,  particularly  of  the  long  lower  tunnel  that  had 
been  driven  deep  into  the  mountain  from  the  inclined  shaft, 
and  below  the  old  workings  from  which  all  the  pay  ore  of  the 
mine  had  come.  The  long  tunnel  followed  blank  rock  its 
whole  length,  and  touched  ore  at  no  point  throughout  its 
course. 

This  was  peculiar.  If  the  veins  above  were  permanent, 
the  tunnel  below  should  have  struck  them.  "True  fissures 
don't  pinch/'  was  one  of  the  things  he  had  learned  in  the 
study  of  mineralogy.  It  was  evident  the  veins  of  the  Eed 
Jacket  were  not  true  fissures,  at  least  they  did  not  hold  to 
the  dip  defined  on  the  upper  levels. 

Pelford  went  above  and  exploited  the  old  workings, 
making  a  careful  survey  of  the  stopes.  Then  he  discovered 
the  error,  and  learned  why  the  Red  Jacket's  pay  streak  had 
not  been  struck. 

The  new  super  was  well  pleased  with  his  day's  work, 
and  returned  to  the  office  in  better  spirits.  The  roustabout 
brought  in  the  mail,  also  two  telegrams  that  had  come  by  the 
afternoon's  stage  from  Placer.  One  was  from  Colonel  Fields, 
and  read: 

"Why  in  thunder  did  you  close  down?  Stockholders 
won't  stand  for  it.  Start  it  up  at  once." 


122  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

The  other  message  was  signed  "Lottie,"  and  inferred: 

"Papa  is  very  angry.  May  discharge  you.  Please  be 
careful." 

Pelford  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  took  a  long  breath. 
His  jubilant  spirits  suffered  a  rude  shock.  He  got  a  little 
relief  by  tearing  the  Colonel's  message  into  bits  and  scatter 
ing  it  over  the  office  floor. 

But  the  little  super  was  not  the  sort  of  man  'to  "tear  a 
passion  to  tatters,"  though  he  could  do  a  telegram  that  way. 
He  sat  for  a  long  time,  thinking  seriously.  He  had  been 
put  in  charge  of  the  Red  Jacket  mine,  but  the  management, 
like  many  companies  with  stock  on  the  market,  was  trying 
to  tie  his  hands  behind  him,  just  to  please  the  shareholders. 
Pelford  knew  he  was  right  in  discharging  the  crew,  and  that 
the  only  way  the  Red  Jacket  could  be  made  to  produce  was 
,to  find  the  lost  pay  streak.  He  knew  he  would  bring  down 
the  wrath  of  the  colonel,  he  might  even  lose  Lottie,  or  the 
chance  of  winning  her,  but  he  was  superintendent  of  the  Red 
Jacket^  and  he  must  place  his  mine  above  everything,  even 
above  Lottie,  should  it  come  to  that.  Yes,  he  concluded,  he 
would  find  that  pay  streak. 

When  he  arrived  by  this  conclusion,  he  seized  a  note 
book  and  penciled  the  following  message  to  the  general 
manager : 

"No  need  grinding  blank  quartz.  Nothing  in  it  but 
expense  to  company.  Am  looking  for  ledge." 

A  second  was  worded: 

"Don't  be  alarmed.  I  will  be  careful."  This  was 
scratched  several  times  and  cut  down  to  10  words,  including, 
"with  much  love,"  as  it  could  not  be  sent  collect,  and  would 
cost  $2  to  New  York. 

Again  the  roustabout  was  called  and  dispatched  through 
the  night  to  Placer. 

Pelford  outlined  a  plan  with  extreme  care,  and  decided 
to  adhere  to  it  religiously.  He  set  the  machine  drills  near 
the  middle  of  the  long  tunnel,  and  directly  beneath  the  stopes 
of  the  old  workings.  A  crosscut  was  started  each  way.  The 
vantage  point  was  selected  after  he  had  hand-picked  each 
wall  nearly  its  whole  length. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      125 

None  but  his  workmen  were  allowed  in  the  tunnel. 
Even  a  "write-up"  man,  desiring  to  boost  the  Gold  Bug 
properties  through  his  special  edition,  was  turned  away  by 
the  firm  little  super. 

The  drills  clattered  day  and  night,  driving  the  crosscuts 
rapidly. 

Between  his  hours  on  duty  and  those  spent  in  his  bunk, 
Pelford  was  kept  busy  answering  telegrams  from  the  general 
manager.  The  irate  colonel  called  him  an  educated  fool. 
He  had  been  sent  out  there  to  keep  the  mine  running,  not  to 
close  it  down.  If  orders  were  not  more  closely  obeyed  he 
would  have  to  be  discharged.  Lottie  could  no  longer  write 
to  him.  The  privilege  of  telegraphing  remained  his,  but 
love  sent  by  wire,  or  received  that  way,  collect,  is  an  expen 
sive  luxury. 

Two  weeks  passed  and  the  drill  penetrating  the  east  wall 
encountered  the  lost  ledge.  The  first  shot  brought  down  a 
mass  of  white  quartz,  glittering  with  virgin  gold.  Pelford 
took  the  discovery  with  complete  unconcern.  The  crosscut 
was  continued  through  the  vein,  and  drift  run  following  the 
hanging  wall.  The  tunnel  had  been  driven  parallel  with, 
and  only  a  few  feet  from  the  ledge. 

The  time  for  making  known  the  discovery  to  the  manage 
ment  had  not  yet  arrived.  Pelford  considered  that  there 
were  several  matters  that  must  needs  be  adjusted  before  the 
colonel  knew  the  truth.  So  he  sent  the  brief  message: 

"Indications  are  good." 

There  was  not  much  encouragement  in  this,  and  Colonel 
Fields  finally  grew  desperate. 

One  evening  Pelford  received  a  wire  advising  him  that 
the  mill  on  the  Red  Jacket  must  be  started  at  once.  "Un 
less  I  report  that  the  stamps  are  pounding,  the  stockholders 
will  mob  me,"  the  message  said. 

Pelford  calmly  instructed :     "Stand  'em  off  with  a  gun." 

This  was  an  unfortunate  remark.  It  brought  the  imme 
diate  information  that  the  colonel  and  an  expert  were  coming 
West  to  make  an  examination  of  the  mine. 

It  would  take  them  four  days  to  arrive,  but  even  at  the 
end  of  that  time  the  discovery  would  not  be  in  shape  for 


126  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

critical  inspection,  so  Pelford  at  once  set  to  work  to  cover  it 
up.  This  was  a  game  in  which  more  than  one  could  play. 
So  the  drills  were  removed  from  the  quartz  of  the  east  drift, 
carried  to  the  crosscut  on  the  opposite  side,  and  set  to  work 
on  the  blank  rock.  The  timbers  were  replaced,  and  the 
entrance  to  the  crosscut  so  admirably  covered  up  that  the 
best  expert  could  not  have  found  it.  The  drill  men  won 
dered,  but  asked  no  questions. 

When  the  blustering  general  manager  and  the  expert 
arrived,  Pelford  courteously  led  them  through  each  stope 
and  drift,  tunnel  and  shaft  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  Eed 
Jacket,  letting  the  expert  arrive  at  his  own  conclusion  as  to 
the  location  of  the  ore  body. 

At  last  he  brought  them  to  the  crosscut  on  the  east  wall 
of  the  tunnel,  and  within  a  few  feet  of  the  concealed  entrance 
to  the  ledge.  The  expert  held  aloft  his  candle,  pecked,  off 
small  bits  of  rock  with  his  hand-pick,  and  looked  sober. 
"Strange,  strange,  indeed,"  said  he.  "If  this  ledge  is  a  true 
fissure,  here  is  where  the  ore  ought  to  be." 

"But  it's  as  blank  as  a  brick,"  retorted  the  general  man 
ager  in  despair. 

"It  certainly  is,"  the  other  replied. 

The  expert  later  went  through  the  mine  alone.  That 
night  he  reported  to  the  colonel  that  the  Red  Jacket  was 
done.  "She  was  nothing  but  a  pocket  vein,"  said  he.  "You've 
worked  that  out,  and  you  may  as  well  quit,  sell  the  machinery, 
or  add  it  to  the  Gold  Bug,  and  report  to  the  stockholders." 

The  two  drove  off  at  an  early  hour  next  day.  Pelford, 
with  his  present  force  of  men,  was  to  remain  on  the  Red 
Jacket  "till  further  orders." 

The  buckboard  had  no  sooner  disappeared  down  the  can 
yon,  than  all  hands  were  at  work  clearing  out  the  concealed 
tunnel.  The  four  drills  were  set  on  that  side,  and  were  soon 
clattering  wildly,  as  if  to  make  good  the  lost  time. 

Just  five  days  later,  or  in  time  to  catch  the  general  man 
ager  on  his  return  home,  Pelford  wired: 

"We've  found  her.  A  horse  threw  her  over,  but  she's 
come  in,  rich  as  silk." 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  dusty  lamp  the  little  super  read 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      127 

the  reply  the  following  night.  It  was  merely  a  request  to 
send  full  particulars  by  mail.  It  was  apparent  that  the 
colonel  doubted  the  discovery. 

Pelford  wrote  two  long  letters.  One  was  on  pale  blue 
paper,  the  other  on  Gold  Bug  stationery.  One  was  addressed 
to  Lottie,  and  was  a  rehearsal  of  the  story  he  had  told  many 
times  before.  The  other  was  to  the  colonel,  with  a  detailed 
account  of  the  strike  as  an  introduction.  Incidentally,  it 
was  mentioned  that  the  Bed  Jacket  was  yet  in  its  infancy, 
and  that  40,  instead  of  20  stamps  should  be  at  work.  Fol 
lowing  this  came  the  main  body  of  the  letter.  It  was  not  as 
lengthy  as  the  part  preceding,  but  to  Pelford  it  was  far  more 
important.  "I  do  not  wish  to  appear  arbitrary  nor  unreason 
able,"  he  concluded,  "and  you  may  wonder  what  this  has  to 
do  with  the  Red  Jacket.  Really,  it  has  much  to  do  with  it, 
much,  at  least,  as  long  as  I  am  identified  with  the  mine.  I 
have  found  the  lost  pay  streak,  but  to  find  it  I  was  obliged  to 
pursue  a  policy  entirely  at  variance  with  your  wishes.  In 
using  my  own  judgment  in  the  matter,  I  have  not  only  in 
curred  your  wrath,  but  have  been  ordered  to  sever  my  atten 
tions  to  Lottie.  Possibly  you  do  not  know  it,  but  I  have  been 
in  love  with  her  for  some  time.  I  am  just  as  determined  to 
win  her,  as  I  was  to  find  the  Red  Jacket's  pay  streak.  I  beg 
that  the  much-feared  parental  objection  be  removed." 

The  letters  were  mailed,  and  Pelford  waited  and  worked. 
Deeper  and  deeper  the  drills  penetrated  the  treasure  vault. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  order  came: 

"Collect  crew  and  start  up  Red  Jacket.  All  parental 
objections  are  removed." 

Thus  it  was  the  Red  Jacket  took  a  new  and  longer  lease 
of  life. 


JOE  KELLEY'S 
BURRO 


^^THE  conversation  around  the  big  box  stove  in  the  Gold 
i|L  Bug  bunk  house  drifted  one  evening  from  snakes  to 
lizzards,  from  lizzards  to  turtles,  from  turtles  to  grass 
hoppers,  from  grasshoppers  to  chaparral,  and  from  chaparral 
to  burros,  which  sequence  psychologists  would  have  pro 
nounced  a  perfectly  natural  order  all  through.  The  Benedict 
and  Tony  Bill,  Slivers  and  The  Spanish  Fly  took  the  lead  on 
matters  pertaining  to  snakes,  lizzards,  turtles  and  grasshop 
pers,  but  it  remained  for  the  Old-Timer  to  have  the  floor 
when  the  burro  was  trotted  into  the  ring. 

"I  think  the  miners  of  the  West  ought  to  get  together 
and  pass  resolutions  thankin'  the  burro  for  his  time-honored 
and  faithful  services  in  the  gold  fields,  and  then  give  'im  an 
honorable  discharge,"  the  Old-Timer  said. 

"Yes,  sir,  the  burro  not  only  deserves  to  be  retired,  but 
ought  to  have  a  big  marble  slab  erected  to  his  memory.  The 
honest  little  donkey  that  piked  the  trails  and  bore  his  load 
uncomplainingly  for  the  gold  hunter,  is  hieing  from  view 
over  the  Great  Divide,  with  we  old-timers  following  at  his 
heels.  He  has  received  his  last  pack,  likewise  his  last  cussin'. 

"But,  after  all,  the  burro  was  the  most  faithful  friend 
the  prospector  ever  had.  He  was  a  pal  who  could  be  de 
pended  upon.  He  never  got  mad  and  tore  up  earth  and 
fumed  and  cussed  because  the  beans  were  too  salty  or  the 
bacon  not  fried  enough;  he  never  wanted  to  divvy  up  rations 
and  call  quits;  he  never  got  up  in  the  night  and  ran  away 
with  the  last  clean-up.  No,  sirree,  the  burro  never  com 
plains.  He  would  eat  anything,  from  chaparral  thorns  to 
buck  brush,  and  was  always  on  hand  when  stakes  were  pulled. 
He  stood  by  his  pal  when  everyone  else  swore  that  pal  was  a 
liar  and  a  thief.  He  would  follow  that  pal  anywhere,  up  any 
kind  of  trail,  and  would  go  anywhere  his  pal  would  go,  ex- 


130  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

cept  up  a  tree.  He  would  have  climbed  a  tree  if  lie  had  claws 
instead  of  hoofs. 

"You  didn't  know  that  one  of  the  richest  mines  in  Colo 
rado  owes  its  beginning  to  a  burro,  did  you?" 

None  of  the  crowd  assembled  in  the  "parlor"  were  aware 
of  such  an  important  circumstance,  and  the  Old-Timer  pro 
ceeded. 

"It  may  smell  like  salmon,  but  it's  a  fact,  just  the  same. 
The  burro  I'm  telling  you  about  was  the  property  of  Joe 
Kelly.  The  burro's  name  was  Billy,  and  he  was  the  toughest 
little  jackass  that  ever  wore  hair.  Joe  was  tough  and 
weather-beaten  enough,  but  Billy  was  more  so.  The  diggers 
down  at  Central  camp  used  to  bet  on  who  would  wear  out 
first — Joe  or  Billy.  The  odds  were  about  even. 

"One  spring  Joe  packed  his  outfit  on  Billy  and  hit  the 
trail  for  the  mountains.  It  was  early  May,  and  on  the  higher 
ranges  a  few  splotches  of  snow  still  hung  tardily  here  and 
there,  and  the  frost  plant  was  just  peepin'  its  soft  brown 
cone  through  the  fat  earth  for  a  glimpse  of  sunlight. 

"When  night  came  on  the  fourth  day  out,  Joe  halted 
and  struck  camp.  'Well,  here  we  are  agi'n,'  said  the  man  to 
the  donkey,  in  the  familiar  way  Joe  had,  for  he  said  he  had 
learned  that  even  a  Mexican  jackass  liked  to  have  a  good  man 
talk  to  him,  and  that  he  would  rather  talk  to  a  jackass  than 
a  lot  of  men  he  knew. 

"That  night,  after  Joe  had  cooked  and  thrown  his  flap 
jacks  and  bacon  behind  his  belt,  he  spread  his  blankets  and 
sat  down  for  a  smoke.  While  sitting  there,  he  fancied  he 
heard  an  unfamiliar  noise  from  the  canyon  below.  "Pears 
to  me  there's  something  prowling  around  here/  Joe  mused  to 
himself,  and  drew  his  long  rifle  across  his  lap.  'Maybe  a 
panther  trying  to  scare  up  a  late  supper.' 

"By  and  by  there  was  a  crackling  of  dry  twigs  across  the 
trail.  Billy  lifted  his  long  ears  and  snorted,  peering  into  the 
gloom.  Just  then  the  campfire  blazed  up  bright,  and  Joe 
saw  two  dusky  men,  crouching  low,  creep  across  the  path,  not 
twenty  yards  away.  'Injuns !'  he  muttered  aloud,  and  at  the 
same  time  cocking  and  raising  his  rifle.  But  he  kept  his 
finger  from  the  trigger,  and  shortly  the  sounds  disappeared, 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.  131 

as  did  the  dusky  men  who  crossed  the  trail.  They  evidently 
ascertained  what  they  wished  to  know,  and  withdrew.  'Well, 
so  long  as  they  won't  bother  us,  we  won't  pester  them;  ain't 
that  right,  Billy?'  The  donkey  assented  with  a  shake  of  his 
head.  Joe  smothered  his  fire  and  rolled  up  his  blankets  with 
the  long  rifle  under  his  head. 

"After  his  coffee  and  bacon  next  morning,  Joe  shouldered 
his  pick  and  shovel  and  struck  off  up  the  creek.  He  found 
moccasin  tracks  in  the  soft  earth,  but  saw  no  Injuns.  It  was 
in  the  afternoon,  and  while  panning  the  dirt  by  the  creek 
that  the  first  suspicious  sound  caught  his  ear.  Joe  dropped 
his  pan  and  made  an  investigation.  The  sounds  were  like 
those  of  a  man  in  pain,  and  they  came  from  the  shelf  rock 
above  him.  He  cocked  his  rifle  and  drew  himself  to  the  crest 
of  the  bank.  Up  there  he  came  unexpectedly  on  a  wounded 
Injun.  The  redskin  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  canyon 
wall.  He  was  -twisting  and  squirming  in  agony,  and  groan 
ing  like  a  man  who's  just  about  gone.  The  red  man's  body 
was  streaked  as  much  with  blood  as  with  paint.  He  had 
slipped  and  dropped  from  the  precipice. 

"Joe  brought  water  from  the  creek,  and  the  Injun  drank 
with  a  dying  thirst.  Then  he  stretched  him  at  ease  on  the 
cool  grass  and  cut  splints  to  bind  his  broken  leg.  While  he 
was  doing  this  three  other  Injuns  came  right  out  of  the 
forest,  like  shadows,  and  stood  off  watching  Joe.  Then  they 
drew  closer  and  brought  Joe  to  a  sudden  understanding  with 
a  loud: 

"'How!' 

Joe  turned  quickly  and  reached  for  his  rifle.  'Why  in 
thunder  didn't  you  tap  the  knocker?"  he  said.  'You  scared 
me  into  the  middle  o'  next  summer,  sneaking  in  like  a  lot  o' 
bobcats.' 

"  'Tillicums,  tillicums,  hyas  tillicums !'  cried  the  red  men 
in  chorus,  as  they  came  forward  with  lowered  rifles.  The 
injured  one  told  his  story,  and  the  dusky  features  of  the 
three  listeners  lighted  with  smiles.  Joe  never  knew  till  then 
that  an  Injun,  could  smile.  One  of  them  spoke  a  sort  of 
English,  and  from  him  the  prospector  learned  they  were  a 
part  of  a  wandering  tribe  under  Chief  Tyhee.  Their  camp 


132  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

was  a  half  sun's  journey  away.  They  did  not  know  how  they 
would  get  the  wounded  brave  to  his  wigwam.  Could  the  pale 
face,  who  was  wise  in  many  things,  tell  them? 

"Joe  went  back  to  his  shovel  and  said  he  would  lend 
them  Billy.  So  he  told  them  where  the  donkey  could  be 
found,  and  the  three  smiled  yet  more  broadly.  Billy  was 
brought  and  the  wounded  redskin  placed  aboard.  The  burro 
struck  off  up  the  creek  with  his  lead,  one  Injun  leading  him, 
the  other  two  holding  the  wounded  brave  astride. 

"Joe  went  back  to  his  shovel  and  pan.  Late  in  the  after 
noon  two  of  the  Injuns  he  had  met  earlier  in  the  day,  together 
with  a  third  strange  one,  appeared  at  Joe's  camp.  The  third 
was  old  Chief  Tyhee  himself,  and  he  was  riding  Billy. 

"  'Mamma-looch,  mamma-looch !'  the  chief  exclaimed, 
when  he  drew  near. 

"  'Hello,  there/  Joe  replied. 

"  'Big  chief  like  paleface  friend/  said  Tyhee,  assuming 
an  attitude  of  supreme  dignity. 

"  'I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  it/  Joe  assured,  modestly. 

"  'Big  chief  like  small  pony.  Want  to  buy  'em.  How 
sell?' 

"Joe  was  not  in  a  trading  mood.  He  couldn't  part  with 
Billy,  not  for  all  the  chief's  kingdom,  and  he  told  him  so. 
Tyhee  grunted  his  displeasure.  He  was  unused  to  being  re 
fused  anything  he  set  his  heart  upon. 

"  'Big  chief  like  cuiton/  continued  Tyhee ;  'will  give 
paleface  good  price.  Will  give  paleface  many  squaws.'  The 
brave  held  three  fingers  aloft.  It  was  a  tempting  offer,  but 
Joe  believed  he  would  prefer  the  donkey  to  a  wigwam  full  of 
squaws. 

"The  chief  was  silent  for  a  while.  Then  he  played  his 
trump  card.  'Gold !'  said  he,  'will  give  paleface  much  gold.' 

"The  magic  word  touched  the  weak  spot  in  Joe's  heart. 
He  at  once  took  an  interest  in  the  proposed  trade.  'Gold?' 
he  asked,  'how  much  ?' 

"  'Heap.     Must  dig.' 

"  'Let's  see  'em.' 

"'Will  paleface  take  'em?'  The  old  chief  was  too 
shrewd  to  show  the  treasure  before  the  deal  was  closed. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      135 

"  'Will  take  'em/  Joe  answered. 

"Tyhee  led  off  on  the  burro,  beckoning  Joe  to  follow. 
Two  miles  up  the  canyon  he  halted  in  the  shadow  of  a  rocky 
ledge  near  the  brink  of  the  creek.  Here  the  three  Injuns 
moved  a  pile  of  stones  heaped  at  the  foot  of  the  canyon  wall, 
revealing  the  treasure. 

"  'Much  gold,  dig,'  commanded  Tyhee. 

"Joe  broke  off  a  fragment  of  the  quartz  and  examined  it 
carefully.  It  was  nearly  half  gold.  The  vein  was  the  richest 
Joe  had  ever  looked  upon. 

"The  deal  was  closed.  Tyhee  and  Billy  disappeared. 
Joe  went  wildly  to  work.  Days  and  days  he  toiled,  and  plied 
the  yellow-streaked  ore  in  a  great  heap  by  the  glory  hole. 
Weeks  passed,  and  with  slack  grub  and  the  gold  craze  and 
over-toil,  the  fever  came  and  Joe  became  a  sick  man.  Strange 
shadows  flitted  across  the  trail  when  he  went  down  to  his 
work.  One  day  the  Injuns  came  with  Billy,  and  found  Joe 
rolling  in  delirium.  They  built  a  trench  and  built  a  fire  of 
live  coals;  on  this  they  piled  stones  to  heat,  and  on  the  stones 
they  laid  leaves  of  the  wild  grape  and  cinnamon.  Then  they 
rolled  Joe  in  blankets  and  laid  him  on  the  steaming  leaves, 
and  in  two  hours  they  had  roasted  the  fever  out  of  him.  But 
there  were  other  things  than  fever  that  ailed  Joe,  things  that 
the  red  men's  medicine  could  not  reach.  He  needed  rest  and 
better  grub  and  soap  and  coffee.  These  the  red  men  could 
not  give,  and  as  Joe  was  too  weak  to  walk,  and  the  Injuns 
could  not  go,  they  turned  Billy  lose  and  told  him  to  hike  to 
Central  camp. 

"So  it  happened  that  one  day,  while  a  lot  of  we  diggers 
were  lounging  in  the  shade  in  front  of  Tom  Mackey's  pla'ce, 
Billy  came  into  town,  jaded,  travel-worn  and  hungry,  and 
dragging  his  halter  under  his  feet.  He  made  for  Joe's  cabin 
and  halted  near  the  door.  An  anxious  crowd  gathered  'round 
the  donkey,  eager  for  some  news  from  Joe.  Billy  was  much 
troubled.  He  stamped  his  feet  impatiently,  and  trotted  un 
easily  to  and  fro.  He  was  telling  the  crowd  about  Joe.  His 
language  was  that  of  a  Mexican  burro,  but  it  was  not  hard  to 
understand. 

"The  miners  shook  their  heads  in  grave  fear.    'Somethin' 


136  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

is  wrong,  boys,  said  one.  'Joe's  in  trouble,  otherwise  Billy 
would  never  leave  him.  We'd  better  take  the  donkey  and 
back  track/ 

"And  back  track  they  did,  with  the  untiring  burro  al 
ways  in  the  lead.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  they 
found  Joe ;  not  dead,  but  nearly  so.  He  lay  on  a  bed  of  pine 
boughs,  and  in  his  delirium  was  running  his  hands  into  a  sack 
of  dust,  and  sifting  the  yellow  stuff  through  his  fingers.  Joe 
was  well  on  the  road  to  Daffyville,  but  the  diggers  soon  had 
him  safely  on  the  right  track. 

"A  month  later  Joe  was  well,  and  a  rich  man.  The 
Tyhee  mine  made  him  a  fortune.  And  Billy  ?  Oh,  he  built 
the  donkey  a  swell  stable,  shod  him  all  'round  in  silver  horse 
shoes,  and  put  a  silver  bell  with  a  gold  clapper  on  his  neck." 


FOR  THE  LOVE 
OF  SADIE 

NO  one  seemed  to  know  who  they   were   or   where   they 
came  from,  except  Bob  Daniels. 

They  were  the  only  passengers  on  the  stage  that  day,, 
and,  as  indicated  by  the  way  bill,  the  two  of  them  had  made 
the  entire  trip  from  Boulder.  While  Slivers  threw  the  mail 
bags  down,  one  of  the  twain,  a  short,  broadshouldered,  deep- 
chested  fellow,  who  had  miner  written  all  over  him,  climbed 
out  and  turned  his  gorilla-like  face  to  the  crowd  that  circled 
the  coach.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  timid  creature  that  fol 
lowed  him,  the  crowd  would  have  then  and  there  pronounced 
him  a  bad  proposition. 

This  timid  creature  was  as  unlike  her  companion  as  she 
could  possibly  be.  She  was  small  and  delicate,  with  a  face 
as  white  and  lifeless  as  wax.  She  trembled  as  if  in  fear  when 
he  took  her  by  the  hand  and  sit  her  on  the  ground.  Then  he 
picked  up  the  two  bundles  of  luggage  and,  giving  her  a  grunt 
of  command,  led  the  way  to  the  boarding  house. 

Later  that  evening  the  stranger  appeared  as  the  mine 
office  and  applied  for  work.  Though  both  shifts  were  already 
full,  Hudson,  the  super,  put  him  on  the  list,  giving  him  a 
stope  on  the  600.  When  over  a  human  machine  like  that 
found  its  way  into  Gold  Bug,  it  was  always  sure  of  a  job. 

Since  he  was  a  married  man,  the  stranger  was  shown 
certain  favors,  for  married  men  were  few  and  far  between  in 
camp,  and  were  more  to  be  encouraged  than  discouraged. 
Thus  he  was  assigned  for  the  day  shift,  and  was  given  a  cabin 
up  on  the  hillside,  away  from  the  main  camp,  where  the 
thunder  of  the  stamp  battery  was  less  terrific,  and  out  of  the 
range  of  the  stray  bullets  and  wild  songs  of  the  Dewdrop. 

The  hard  work  and  tidy  care  of  the  big  miner's  wife 
soon  made  the  little  cabin  the  neatest  in  camp.  The  Old 
Woman  gave  them  two  extra  cots  from  the  boarding  house, 


138      THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

and  Hudson  donated  a  chair  from  the  mine  office.  Palmer 
had  a 'table  in  the  laboratory  that  he  found  but  little  use  for. 
and  sent  it  along  with  the  chair  and  the  cots. 

A  week  or  more  passed  before  the  grizzled  stranger  met 
Bob  Daniels.  Bob  was  night  shift  boss  on  the  500,  and  had 
been  in  camp  but  little  more  than  a  month.  He  was  also  big 
and  rough  and  whiskered,  but  his  heart  was  that  of  a  child, 
and  his  steel  gray  eyes  sparkled  with  the  merriment  of  youth. 
He  spent  the  bulk  of  his  wages  at  the  Dewdrop  bar  and  over 
the  little  green  table  in  the  card  room,  and  had  a  turn  at  the 
wheel  now  and  then,  but  he  always  played  square,  and  owed 
no  man  a  cent.  He  had  heard  considerable  talk  about  the  big- 
human  chimpanzee,  who  swung  the  hammer  with  the  strength 
of  a  Trojan,  and  who  grunted  his  few  words  like  a  mad 
Indian.  But  as  he  was  on  a  different  shift,  Bob  had  not  seen 
him,  and  when  the  two  met  it  was  merely  by  chance.  Bob 
had  remained  in  the  mine  to  extract  a  stick  of  dynamite  from 
a  missed  hole,  and  did  not  come  up  till  the  night  men  were 
going  on. 

Half  way  between  the  shaft  house  arid  the  sump  tank,  he 
came  upon  a  huge  thing  in  the  trail.  Darkness  had  settled, 
but  Bob  saw  enough  through  the  gloom  to  convince  him  that 
it  was  the  human  gorilla  he  had  heard  the  diggers  talk  so 
much  about.  Instinctively,  he  dodged  to  one  side  and  reached 
for  the  place  where  he  sometimes  carried  a  gun. 

But  it  was  not  the  mere  thing  of  being  startled  that  put 
Bob  Daniels  on  his  guard.  The  first  glimpse,  even  in  the 
darkness,  that  he  had  of  the  big  man's  face,  recalled  a  host  of 
bitter  memories.  He  knew  at  once  he  was  face  to  face  with 
one  whom  he  had  hoped  he  would  never  again  meet. 

It  all  came  upon  him  in  a  flash — th,e  Tin  Cup  camp,  the 
Gold  Dollar,  and  Sadie,  and — he  cried  the  name  aloud: 

"Chris  Dolan  I" 

The  other  man  made  no  coherent  reply.  He  only 
grunted  in  surprise,  and  jumped,  as  if  for  shelter,  behind  a 
clump  of  manzanita. 

Daniels  stood  in  the  trail  and  looked  upon  the  huge  thing 
that  glowered  from  behind  the  bush.  "I'm  sorry  you've  come, 
Chris."  said  he,  "but  I'll  take  it  for  granted  that  you  did  not 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      139 

know  I  was  here.  Five  years  ago  we  quit,  and  agreed  to  take 
different  trails.  I  would  have  been  the  happiest  man  on  earth 
but  for  you.  Sadie  would  have  married  me  had  it  not  been 
for  you.  It  was  the  lie  you  told  that  won  her  from  me — made 
her  believe  I  was  a  thief  and  a  scoundrel,  and  not  fit  to  asso 
ciate  with  decent  women.  Well,  I'm  no  angel,  but  I  believe 
in  fair  play,  and  it  Avas  for  her  that  I  took  the  blame  of  that 
Leadville  mix-up,  and  stood  trial.  I've  served  the  sentence 
that  rightly  belonged  to  you.,  that  Sadie  might  not  be  un 
happy,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  don't  love  you  any  better 
now  than  I  did  then.  There  ain't  a  camp  in  Colorado  big 
enough  for  the  two  of  us.  But  I've  signed  for  another  month, 
and  will  stay  it  out.  We  must  be  a  little  more  careful  after 
this,  for  next  time  we  meet  I  might  have  my  gun/7 

I  was  a  long  speech — much  longer  than  Bob  Daniels  was 
accustomed  to  make.  Chris  listened  irf  silence,  and  when  Bob 
stepped  to  one  side,  accepted  the  movement  as  a  command  and 
shambled  past  him  up  the  trail,  pausing  again  when  Bob 
inquired: 

"If  you  don't  mind  tellin'  me,  Chris,  how  is  Sadie?" 

"Only  tolerable/'  Chris  answered.  "I  learned  the  day 
after  we  arrived  that  you  were  in  camp,  but  it  was  then  too 
late  to  move.  I  told  her  you  were  here,  and  she  wants  to  see 
you/' 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't — I  must  not.  It  wouldn't  do. 
Don't  forget,  Chris,  that  between  you  and  me  there's  no  such 
tiling  as  letting  bygones  be  bygones.  We  traveled  too  rough 
a  road  to  forget." 

When  he  had  ceased  talking  Chris  went  on  up  the  trail. 
Bob  entered  the  boarding  house  and  ate  the  supper  that  was 
waiting  for  him. 

By  practicing  caution,  the  two  men  prevented  further 
accidental  meetings  on  the  trail.  But  their  second  meeting, 
like  the  first,  was  by  chance.  One  black  night,  and  near  the 
middle  of  the  shift,  the  water  supply  for  the  mortars  run 
suddenly  low.  Bob  had  finished  his  work  on  the  500  and 
came  up  with  the  powder  gang.  As  there  was  no  one  else 
handy,  the  foreman  sent  him  out  on  the  ditch  to  ascertain 
the  trouble.  He  took  a  lantern,  but  without  lighting  it,  struck 


140  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

off  up  the  ditch,  which  wound  around  camp,  hanging  to  the 
steep  hillside. 

At  one  time,  when  he  came  'round  the  shoulder  of  a 
ridge,  he  believed  he  saw  a  light  in  the  window  of  Chris 
Dolan's  cabin.  It  flickered  only  for  an  instant,  and  then  went 
out.  Bob  halted  and  held  his  eyes  on  that  part  of  the  canyon 
where  the  light  was  seen,  but  it  appeared  no  more,  and  he 
moved  on,  though  not  without  some  wonderment. 

The  ditch  was  on  a  level  with  the  cabin  roof,  and  only  a 
few  yards  from  the  eaves.  When  he  neared  the  house  he 
heard  the  gurgle  and  splash  of  wasting  water,  and  knew  that 
the  break  in  the  ditch  was  just  beyond  the  cabin.  He  took  a 
match  from  his  jacket  to  light  the  lantern,  but  was  arrested 
in  the  act  by  the  crunch  of  a  pisk.  It  was  evident  that  some 
one  was  at  work  on  the  break.  Without  making  a  light,  he 
crept  farther  up.  When  near  at  hand  he  peered  from  behind 
a  chaparral. 

The  ditch,  at  this  point  of  the  hillside,  was  lifted  out  of 
the  denser  darkness  of  the  vale,  and  Bob  was  able  to  dis 
tinguish  rocks  and  trees  and  bushes  at  some  distance.  Thus 
he  easily  saw  a  man  at  work  on  the  break,  and  only  a  brief 
glimpse  was  sufficient  to  convince  him  that  the  man  was 
Chris  Dolan.  Fully  half  the  flow  was  escaping  through  the 
break,  and  Chris  was  working  desperately  to  stop  it.  It  was 
beyond  Bob  to  arrive  at  the  cause  of  the  accident.  There  had 
been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  but  no  thawing  as  yet,  and  the 
ditch  banks  were  firm. 

Bob  finally  concluded  that  Chris  had  been  tampering 
with  the  ditch,  and  was  fully  convinced  of  this  when  he  saw 
him  pause  in  his  work  to  move  a  heavily  filled  canvas  bag  out 
of  the  way  of  the  escaping  water.  Bob  was  of  the  opinion 
that  Chris  had  attempted  to  bury  the  bag  under  the  ditch,  and 
had  loosened  the  bank. 

Bob  stood  up  and  made  his  presence  known,  walking 
slowly  down  the  ditch  with  the  lantern  dangling  against  his 
boot  leg.  Chris  dropped  his  pick  in  surprise,  and  recoiled 
several  paces  down  the  slope. 

"What's  the  trouble  ?"  Bob  asked,  ignorantly. 


HH        K 

B  s 

o    K 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      143 

"Break  in  the  ditch/7  Chris  .replied.  As  he  spoke  he 
discreetly  dropped  his  coat  over  the  canvas  bag. 

"We  noticed  the  water  was  running  low  down  at  the 
mill,"  Bob  explained,  "and  supposed  there  was  a  break  some 
where.  Simpson  sent  me  up  to  find  it.  How  did  it  occur  ?" 

"Don't  know/'  Chris  answered,  still  working  furiously : 
"'heard  the  water  gurgling — woke  me  up — and  I  came  out  to 
fix  it." 

In  other  days  Chris  never  indulged  in  long  sentences 
except  to  lie,  and  Bob  was  confident  his  characteristics  in 
that  regard  were  still  unchanged. 

Daniels  lighted  the  lantern,  and  gave  a  hand  to  mending 
the  break.  In  a  little  while  the  repair  was  made,  and  the 
escaping  water  turned  into  the  ditch.  No  further  word  passed 
between  the  two,  and  when  they  were  done,  Chris  picked  up 
his  coat,  being  careful  to  gather  up  the  bag  with  it,  and 
started  toward  the  cabin. 

"Hold  a  minute/'  said  Bob,  "let's  see  if  we  can  figure 
this  thing  out.  I'd  like  to  know  how  it  happened." 

"I  don't  give  a  cuss  how  it  happened,"  Chris  replied,  by 
which  Bob  was  to  understand  he  desired  to  dismiss  the  sub 
ject. 

He  started  to  move  away  again,  when  Bob  said  frankly: 
"I  might  as  well  be  plain  with  you,  Chris,  and  tell  you.  I 
know  just  how  it  happened.  You've  been  up  to  your  old  tricks 
again.  You've  lifted  a  sack,  and  were  trying  to  cache  it 
under  the  bank  here.  Come,  now,  'fess  up,  ain't  I  got  it 
about  right?" 

Dolan  hung  his  head,  and  hugged  the  coat  and  he  con 
cealed  the  bag  closer  under  his  arm.  He  made  no  reply,  and 
Bob  continued: 

"No  need  of  your  trying  to  hide  it.  I'm  on.  Drop  that 
stuff,  and  I'll  see  that  it's  taken  care  of." 

"Curse  my  luck!"  cried  Dolan  with  an  oath.  Then  he 
settled  to  the  ground  and  dropped  his  head  to  his  knees. 
"You're  not  going  to  squeal  on  me,  Bob  ?"  he  asked,  piteously. 
"Honest  to  God,  I've  dragged  this  bag  around  with  me  for  a 
year,  trying  to  get  rid  of  it,  not  by  spending  it,  for  it's  all 
here,  just  as  I  found  it.  But  it  has  been  my  hoodoo.  This 


144  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

was  my  third  attempt  to  hide  it  since  I  came  to  Gold  Bug. 
And  now,  if  you  take  it,  and  it  leaks  out — 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  opening  of  the  cabin  window. 
A  white  face  appeared  in  the  dark  hole,  and  a  woman's  voice 
asked  anxiously : 

"What's  the  matter,  Chris,  why  are  you  out  there  ?" 

It  was  Dolan's  wife.  It  was  Sadie.  Bob  knew  the  voice 
—he  had  heard  it  many  times  before.  But  in  those  happy 
days  it  did  not  seem  so  old  and  sad  as  now. 

"Just  a  break  in  the  ditch,"  said  Chris.  "It  is  fixed 
now,  and  I'll  be  in  soon." 

The  window  closed,  and  the  white  face  disappeared. 

"Does  she  know  you  have  this?"  Chris  had  willingly 
relieved  himself  of  the  bag,  and  Bob  picked  it  up. 

"My  God  no!  The  Gold  Dollar  mill  haul  was  the  last 
scrape  she  knows  of  my  being  in.  I've  been  square  since 
then.  This  stuff  was  piled  in  to  me  by  some  of  the  gang,  now 
scattered.  It's  from  the  Boulder  bank;  been  nearly  a  year 
since  it  was  lifted,  but  hounds  are  still  out;  but  they  don't 
suspect  me,  and  I'm  safe  as  long  as  the  stuff's  kept  out  of 
sight.  For  God's  sake,  Bob,  put  it  where  nobody  can  find  it." 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  Bob  answered.  "I'm  glad  I  came 
upon  you  just  when  I  did.  It  may  save  trouble;  also,  I'm 
glad  to  know  you're  straight.  Had  I  known  that,  I  would 
not  have  been  so  harsh  .the  other  night.  But  we'll  keep  the 
same  sweet  distance  between  us,  for  as  I  said  before,  you  and 
me  have  several  bygones  that  we  can't  shake." 

Daniels  gathered  the  bag  under  his  coat  and  returned 
to  the  mine,  reaching  the  mill  just  as  the  night  shift  was 
piling  out  of  the  shaft  cage,  six  at  a  time. 


A  month  later  a  lone  horseman  came  up  the  stage  road 
and  pulled  rein  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge.  It  was  an  after 
noon  in  April,  and  the  rider  tilted  back  his  hat  to  whiff  the 
north  wind,  that  came  soft  and  warm  down  the  canyons  of  the 
Colorado  mountains.  The  snow  peaks  of  Baldy"  and  Preston 
were  pink  lighted  by  the  subtle  touch  of  spring.  The  frost 
plant  peeped  its  delicate  cone  through  the  fat  earth  by  the 
edge  of  the  melting  snows. 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      145 

The  man  hitched  up  his  holster  another  notch,  with  a 
mute  suggestion  of  hunger,,  for  an  aroma  of  boiled  beef  and 
baked  beans  drifted  up  the  canyon  from  Gold  Bug  boarding 
house,  a  half  mile  below. 

At  a  slight  touch  of  the  spurs  the  horse  dashed  down  the 
road,  and  in  a  moment  stood  panting  before  the  mine  office 
door.  The  man  dismounted,  leaving  the  reins  dangling  from 
the  bits,  and  entering,  found  Hudson  at  the  desk. 

"I'm  Bliton,  the  sheriff,  just  down  from  Boulder,"  an 
nounced  the  new  arrival.  He  slipped  his  glove  and  extended 
his  hand. 

"And  Fm  Hudson/'  the  super  answered,  with  a  cordial 
grasp.  "Whose  trail  are  on?" 

"To  be  honest,  I  must  confess  I  don't  know.  It's  a  cold 
trail  at  best,  and  mighty  hard  to  follow.  I'm  still  working 
on  that  Boulder  bank  hold-up,  that  happened  over  a  year  ago. 
I  got  wind  that  one  of  the  gang,  carrying  the  sack,  drifted  in 
here  about  a  month  ago.  I  want  to  know  if  you  have  a  man 
on  your  list  by  the  name  of  Evans — Bob  Evans?" 

"No  such  a  name  with  us,"  the  super  declared.  "I  know 
every  man  Jack  of  the  crew,  and  am  pretty  certain  we  have 
no  Bob  Evans.  Dixon,  over  there,  has  the  books,  and  you  can 
look  them  over  if  you  wish." 

"No  need,"  the  sheriff  assured.  "Your  word  is  good 
enough." 

"We  have  a  Bob  Daniels,"  the  bookkeeper  informed,  as 
he  glanced  hurriedly  over  the  time  sheet.  "He  came  here 
about  six  weeks  ago." 

"But  he's  not  the  man  Bliton  wants,"  Hudson  declared. 

"Is  he  square- jawed,  broad-shouldered,  black-haired, 
gray-eyed,  medium — 

"Yes,  but  we  have  a  dozen  men  that  could  answer  to  such 
description,"  said  Hudson. 

"Where  is  this  Bob  Daniels  now  ?" 

"Down  on  the  500.  Usually  sleeps  during  the  day,  but 
we  changed  shifts  two  days  ago.  Want  to  see  him  ?" 

"Not  just  yet;  but  I  would  like  entrance  to  his  room. 
I'll  search  it—" 

"Boom?"  Hudson  snorted.     "Do  you  think  we're  run- 


14(5  THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

ning  a  summer  hotel  out  here?  His  room  is  a  lower  shelf 
down  in  the  bunk  house.  Go  search  it  if  you  like,  but  be 
easy  about  it,  as  some  of  the  night  boys  are  still  asleep,  and 
will  crack  your  noggin  if  you  wake  them." 

"They'll  never  know  it,"  the  sheriff  assured.  A  moment 
later  he  followed  Hudson  across  the  camp  to  the  long  low 
building  that  served  as  sleeping  quarters  for  the  men. 

They  crossed  the  parlor  on  tip-toe,  and  passed  down  the 
dark  aisle  between  the  rows  of  bunks,  from  many  of  which 
the  deep  breathing  and  long  drawn  snores  were  heard  even 
above  the  distant  roar  of  the  mill. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  room  the  two  halted,  and  Hudson 
indicated  a  lower  bunk.  "That's  Bob's  apartment  there,"  he 
informed.  "This  is  too  much  like  stealing  eggs  from  a  hay 
loft  to  suit  me.  I'm  going  to  quit  you."  Whereupon  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  left. 

The  sheriff  searched  first  in  the  pile  of  straw  that  served 
as  mattress  for  the  "bunk;  then  pulled  the  blankets  and  lifted 
the  pillow,  but  found  nothing  except  two  packages  of  smoking 
tobacco  and  a  box  of  cigarettes.  Finally  he  got  down  on  his 
knees  and  reached  exploring  hands  under  the  bunk,  dragging 
out  two  pairs  of  miner's  boots  and  a  badly  worn  slicker.  Then 
his  hand  came  upon  a  canvas  bag.  It  was  heavy,  and  he 
clinched  his  lingers  hard  around  it  to  bring  it  out.  The 
officers  eyes  gleamed  triumphantly  when  the  bag  was  hauled 
into  the  dim  light  of  the  bunk  house.  It  weighed  nearly 
twenty  pounds,  and  bore  in  big  letters  across  one  side,  the 
words:  "Boulder  National  Bank." 

Two  minutes  later  the  sheriff  dropped  the  bag  on  Hud 
son's  desk.  The  super  puffed  hard  at  his  pipe  for  a  while, 
then  turned  his  black  eyes  to  the  window,  and  remarked: 

"Well,  I'll  be'  damned  !" 

"Not  such  a  cold  trail  after  all,"  said  the  sheriff.  "This 
is'a  snap  so  far.  The  next  thing  is  to  get  my  man.  Did  you 
say  he  is  down  in  the  mine  ?" 

"Yes,  he's  shift  boss  on  the  500.     I'll  go  down  with  you." 

Hudson  led  the  way  to  the  shaft  house,  the  two  boarded 
the  cage,  and  were  dropped  to  the  wide  station  on  the  500- 
foot  level.  From  a  half  dozen  candlesticks,  stuck  in  the 


THE  GOLD  BUG  8TORY  BOOK.      149 

station  posts,  well  spent  candles  sputtered  their  yellow  flames. 
Ore  cars  rumbled  and  roared  down  the  drifts,  and  machine 
drills  clattered  from  the  stopes. 

The  two  men  groped  their  way  down  a  long  tunnel,  and 
climbed  a  ladder  that  led  from  an  ore  chute  aloft.  They 
clambered  into  a  broad  stope,  flickering  with  candles  and  alive 
with  the  "Pink  !  pink !  pink  !"  of  the  jacks  on  the  drills. 

"That's  your  man  over  there  in  the  red  flannel  shirt/7 
said  Hudson. 

The  sheriff  stooped  and  crossed  the  stope.  When  he 
drew  near,  Bob  caught  the  flash  of  his  star,  and  understood. 

The  sheriff  made  as  if  to  draw  his  gun,  but  the  miner 
raised  his  hand.  "Spare  your  powder/'  he  said.  "I'm  on, 
and  am  with  you.  Just  give  the  word  and  I'll  lead  or 
follow." 

"I  guess  you'd  better  lead,"  said  the  sheriff,  as  he 
dropped  in  behind,  and  followed  him  down  the  ladder  and 
through  the  dark  tunnel  to  the  station. 

When  they  came  to  the  surface  they  found  the  camp  in 
great  commotion.  The  big  brass  gong  at  the  office  was  clang 
ing  wildly.  Blue  and  red-shirted  miners,  bare  of  head  and 
with  unlaced  boots,  were  piling  in  confusion  from  the  bunk 
house  and  cabins.  From  up  the  canyon  came  a  roar  and 
crash  as  of  a  hurricane  tearing  the  forest.  The  earth 
trembled,  and  the  mountain  sides  was  shaking. 

"It's  a  slide !"  said  the  super.  "There's  a  big  snow  slip 
on  Baldy."  He  ran  back  to  the  shaft  house  and  called  up 
Simpson.  "Simp !  Simp !"  he  yelled.  "Get  the  men  out 
of  the  mine;  there's  a  slide  up  here,  and  if  the  shaft  is  cov 
ered,  they  will  be  buried  like  rats." 

The  big*  super  ran  madly  from  the  trail  to  the  bunk 
house,  to  rout  out  the  remaining  men,  driving  them  all,  like 
frightened  sheep,  to  the  middle  of  the  vale  below. 

The  day  shift  poured  out  of  the  mine  like  rats,  and 
scattered  for  the  open  plateau. 

Then  came  the  slide,  or  a  big  part  of  it.  Half  of  Baldy 
broke  from  the  apex,  and  slipping  down,  left  a  deep  red  scar 
in  its  wake.  At  first  it  moved  gently  and  easily,  then  jumped 
and  leaped.  Pines  broke  and  snapped  and  twisted  like  straws 


150      THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK. 

under  the  avalanche  of  snow  and  earth ;  the  cabins  and  build 
ings  of  the  upper  end  of  the  camp  crushed  and  crumbled  and 
rolled  under  the  mass.  The  great  mountain  shook  as  if 
afraid. 

Half  way  across  camp  the  slide  halted.  The  mill  still 
thundered  its  battery,  as  if  in  defiance,  and  the  "chug !  chug !" 
of  the  compressor  was  heard  above  the  rumble  and  crash  of 
destruction. 

After  the  first  slip  had  quieted,  the  crowd  looked  up 
from  the  vale  and  beheld  a  little  cabin,  half  torn  from  its 
foundation,  hanging  at  the  base  of  the  avalanche. 

"It's  Chris  Dolan's  cabin !"  said  one. 

"Chris,  Chris,  where  is  he?"  inquired  the  super,  ex 
citedly. 

"And  his  wife,"  yelled  the  Old  Woman  of  the  boarding 
house.  "She's  up  there  with  him !  Listen,  I  hear  her 
screaming!  They  can't  get  out!" 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  crowd  of  rough-and-ready 
men.  Though  accustomed  to  danger,  this  was  an  ordeal  to 
test  the  nerve  of  the  bravest  of  them.  The  screams  of  the 
woman  continued  to  come  from  the  cabin.  It  was  certain 
death  to  attempt  to  rescue  her ;  at  least,  the  chances  were  one 
in  a  "thousand.  If  the  slide  would  hold  only  for  a  little 
while.  If  it  did  not  hold- 
Suddenly  a  man  rushed  from  the  crowd  and  crossed  tho 
camp.  He  was  clad  in  red  flannel  shirt,  his  arms  and  head 
were  bare,  his  sleeves  rolled  high.  He  ran  nimbly  up  the 
steep  slope  toward  the  cabin.  It  was  Bob  Daniels.  They 
vainly  tried  to  stop  him.  They  shouted  for  him  to  return, 
but  he  paid  no  heed.  Up,  up,  he  climbed,  into  the  very  jaws 
of  death,  with  the  gravel  rattling  and  rolling  about  his  feet, 
and  the  snow  slipping,  slipping,  gently,  treacherously,  while 
the  watchers  below  held  their  breath  and  waited. 

He  reached  the  cabin  and  climbed  in.  Shortly  he  came 
out,  carrying  a  woman  in  his  arms.  It  was  Chris  Dolan's 
wife.  The  crowd  cheered  lustily.  He  carried  her  down  the 
steep  slope  through  the  spongy  snow  and  across  the  camp  to 
the  open  and  safety. 

When  he  had  delivered  his  burden  to  the  01<J  Woman, 


THE  GOLD  BUG  STORY  BOOK.      151 

he  rushed  to  the  mill,  seized  an  ax,  and  was  up  the  hill  again 
toward  the  cabin.  This  time  Hudson,  the  super,  was  with 
him. 

"Chris  is  in  here  I"  Bob  shouted,  as  he  smashed  the  win 
dow  and  crawled  in.  "He's  pinned  under  Ms  bunk." 

Rapid  blows  of  the  ax  followed,  and  in  a  little  while  the 
huge  body  of  the  miner,  limp  and  unconscious,  was  passed 
out,  and  Hudson  bore  him  down  the  hill.  At  that  moment 
the  slip  gave  way  and  the  cabin  tilted  over,  catching  Bob 
under  the  door.  Hudson  halted  as  if  to  turn  back.  "Go  on, 
for  God  sake,  run!"  Bob  shouted,  as  the  cabin  rolled  over 
and  was  caught  under  the  avalanche.  With  a  wild  shriek 
the  slide  let  go,  and  hurled  its  millions  of  tons  of  snow  and 
earth  upon  the  camp.  Hudson  and  Chris  were  scooted  and 
buffeted  by  the  van  of  the  mass  out  across  the  slope,  and 
tossed  and  rolled  over  the  mill  to  the  edge  of  the  plateau, 
bruised  and  bleeding,  but  safe. 


Hudson  put  two  shifts  at  work  on  the  slide,  and  the 
sheriff  remained  and  worked  with  them.  They  dug  for  ten 
days,  driving  tunnels  in  the  mass  of  earth,  looking,  search 
ing,  probing  for  Bob's  body.  At  last  they  found  it,  and  the 
funeral  was  held  at  the  camp  cemetery,  a  half  mile  up  the 
canyon.  The  stamps  were  hung  up  that  day,  and  both  shifts 
were  there  to  stand  around  the  grave  with  bared  heads  and 
heavy  hearts.  A  preacher  came  all  the  way  from  Boulder  to 
preach  the  funeral,  and  the  miners  sung  "Nearer  My  God  to 
Thee,"  more  pathetically  than  the  dear  old  song  was  ever 
sung. 

Over  the  coffin  Sadie  mourned  and  wept,  for  now  she 
knew  how  wide  and  deep  was  the  love  of  him  who  had  met 
death  smilingly  that  Chris  might  be  saved. 

They  heaped  the  mound  with  mountain  daisies,  and  the 
Boulder  bank  sent  out  a  stone  to  mark  Bob's  last  resting 
place.  At  its  base  was  the  inscription :  "Don't  Be  Hard 
With  Him,  God,  for  He  Was  Square." 


THE  END 


INDEX 


Millie  and  the  Thoroughbred 9-21 

Because  of  Fannie 23-33 

On  and  Off  The  Water  Wagon 35-42 

The  Tin  Horn  of  Gold  Bug 43-51 

When  The  Plunger  Quit 53-64 

The  Gold  Bug  Kid 65-77 

An  111  Wind 79-83 

The  "Dare  Devil" 85-98 

The  Silver  Candlestick 99-106 

A  Confusion  of  Goods , 107-115 

When  The  Red  Jacket  Paid 117-127 

Joe  Kelley's  Burro 129-13B 

For  The  Love  of  Sadie. .  .  .137-151 


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